Clay and Pearl: Specter
by KnightedRogue
Summary: Continuation of C&P: Han Solo/Leia Organa. AU of ESB, rated M for language and sexual situations.
1. Prologue

_Prologue_

* * *

Dark. The night sky above her was pregnant with rain, heavy and menacing. Deep rumbles of thunder wrapped around her like a cloak: intimate, like they existed for her alone. A single bolt of lightning tore through the air, just bright enough for her to see an endless expanse of sky above her. Another sharp burst of light and she could see a beautiful, hovering city, rising pearlescent through the caliginous clouds.

The air was cold, biting into her skin like ice. She ignored it. She had a purpose, a mission, and lives depended on her success. The Alliance? Yes, of course. But more than the Alliance, too. Something more elemental, deeper; a fight for survival, for good, that spanned generations, millennia, one that eclipsed her fight against the Empire.

She felt small, a spark of light in a cloaked hood of astronomical size. One of trillions but the only one wearing white. She turned her head, stepped around herself in a circle. No one else, no other points of light. Utterly alone in the vastness.

All alone … but for a seeping darkness. Heavy. Strangling. She imagined it in a corner: huddled, breathing heavy and wrapped in a robe of empty nothingness. Like gravity, it pulled bodies toward itself: engorged in matter, stealing light.

"Hello?" she shouted into the void. "Who's there?"

But the void didn't answer in words, only in great peals of thunder. Booms like ion cannons echoed around her like she was in a giant room. She eyed the great, floating city, a peaceful contrast against the rip-roar of the storm around her.

Was this her mission? She didn't know.

She took a step, confident and sure, but fell. Weightless and yet duracrete-heavy, she tumbled through the sky like a rock, the dark clouds of the storm devouring her whole as she slipped beneath the city. They offered nothing to stop her fall; she reached and reached but nothing had shape or form. It was all cloud and vapor.

"Han?" she yelled into the darkness. "Luke!"

They were here somewhere, she knew. She could feel them, feel the bubbling, excitable energy of Luke, the calmer, more combustible aura of Han. They were focused on another task, something else, separate from her mission but in lock-step. Where were they? They could help, they could—

_I have them, _a deep voice said.

She wasn't sure if the voice had form or not, if it existed in the midst of the freefall or only in her head. It felt close, like a breath on her neck. Near enough to fight, surely, and she was ready to fight for her men, for the men who fought for her.

"Chewie!" She tried to push back the despair. If Chewie was here, everything could be saved. Chewie could help her, could sense where they all were—

_I have all of them._

"Where?" she asked, her voice tinny in the wind of her fall. She couldn't see anything anymore; the lightning had fled and the thunder had only come closer.

The voice didn't answer. Dread ran circuits down her spine.

"Chewie!" she screamed into the night. "Han!"

_They are mine, _the voice said but now it sounded more like the thunder itself, deep and owning, surrounding her on all sides as the air pressure dropped.

She tried to cry out but the darkness enveloped her. She resisted, flinging her arms and legs wide to fight, but it was too strong, like a heavy, cold, wet blanket. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think.

_Who are you? _she asked but it wasn't from her lips. It was a thought, a wisp of an inward cry. She tried again. _What do you want?_

_I'm coming, _it said, and the pressure strangled her into blackness. _I'm coming._

* * *

_Author's Note: Welcome back!_ _I'm so excited to share this continuation of C&P with you! _

_To celebrate the kick-off of this sequel, I will be posting chapter 2 next Friday, November 1st. From then on, C&P2 will update on the first of each month. I know you guys would rather get regular updates _and _a happy author than an anxious one who disappears under the strain of weekly updates. Thank you for your support: I think this schedule will work best for everyone. _

_Special thanks to _**AmongstEmeraldClouds**, _who has agreed to beta this story over the next several months. She's in it for the long haul and will make this crazy story better for all of you, adding a second set of eyes to a plot that could swallow all of us whole if I let it. Thank you, thank you, thank you!_

_And, lastly, thank you for coming back for a second course of C&P. This story is a labor of love and I know I can trust my readers to be kind in their comments and reviews. Strap in tight, my friends. We're in for a wild ride. -KR _


	2. Newborns

_Newborns_

* * *

Leia Organa awoke with a jolt, like the _crack _of blasterfire in a silent room. She heaved over the side of the bunk, startled by her sudden consciousness, half-awake and gagging. Giant rolls of sickening fear tore through her chest. Wave upon wave of panic: the muscles of her arms shaking, a harsh ringing in her ears. All she could do was choke down the sounds as she fought for control.

And a shadow: a dark, looming presence in the back of her mind where instinct lived and died. Pressing every fight-or-flight reflex she had, pushing her to her hands and knees on the deckplates next to the bunk.

For twenty long seconds she fought for control over herself, fought against a rising nausea that had no sense and no ammunition since she had nothing in her stomach. Cold—as cold as the vacuum of space on the other side of the hull—so unbearably icelike and penetrating. She felt like the cold had arms, fingers, sweeping down her throat and into her organs, like she was infested with it, a plague in her blood.

_I'm coming._

She pressed her lips together. The shaking worsened: great, unbearable quaking from her shoulders to her toes. It was hard to focus on anything but she tried to breathe, tried to take big gulps of air. Her lungs staggered into a steady rhythm; they were slow as a thick syrup, but they were enough for now and she was able to open her eyes into the cold, dark night-cycle of her cabin on _Home One_.

Leia turned her head with a soft exhale, wrestled with the ringing in her ears to find the time display soldered to the hull. 0214. Almost two hours until her alarm would rouse her from what had been a deep sleep, curled into warmth and peace with the man she loved.

She turned blurry eyes to her bunk and saw the sprawling shape of Han Solo in complete repose. In the blue night-cycle lighting the skin of his shoulder-blades looked cold, harsh, so different from the warmth he usually projected. His breathing was deep, even. She hadn't woken him, and for that she was grateful. He had a scouting run in the afternoon with his flight and those always made him nervous, though he would never admit it. He deserved his sleep.

She blew out an unsteady breath, climbed to her feet and moved into the fresher, sliding the hatch closed behind her with a shaky hand. In the harsh light she looked pale, sick. Thin and wavering. Like a ghost.

_I'm coming._

The voice wasn't human and it wasn't one she'd heard before, either. It had sounded like a figment of her imagination, a specter with a voicebox meant to frighten young children. Ethereal almost, and she was left on edge with its haunting quality. The one phrase she could remember from her awful dream. _I'm coming._

"Who are you?" she whispered.

She knew she was alone, knew there was no one to hear her. Tendrils of residual dread ran up and down her spine. She tried to steady her breathing, gripped the side of the spot-welded mirror with white knuckles. What was it about the voice that bespoke so much viciousness, like a heavy weight about to descend? Destructive. Smothering. Aflame.

She shook her head, leaned into the light, focused on her reflection. A bad dream, that was all it had been. A manifestation of her subconscious worrying about the Alliance. Symptomatic of a busy mind in a busy time. This was no different from her dreams of Alderaan, when she cried and cried and begged for relief from the utter horror of life without her world. A bad dream. That was it.

_Get it together, _she commanded herself and began braiding her hair into its usual wrap-around crown. _You have a job to do._

* * *

With two hours to kill and a nagging sense of despair like a weight on her shoulders, Leia walked to the training room. She couldn't imagine going to her office and felt no need to see anyone—even Han—in this state. The fog of her nightmare had lifted but the hopelessness had not: the penetrating cold of helpless rage colored everything in sight.

By contrast, the efficiency of _Home One _was an idle comfort, unglossed and unfeeling. The empty corridors connected empty rooms as she passed from the officer's wing to the noncommissioned bunkrooms. Two hours left in the cycle: on-shift personnel were nearing the end of their workday and the off-shift personnel were approaching wakefulness. This was the brutal reality of war; mundanity and schedules and the minutiae of running a revolution.

But even _Home One_'s efficacy wasn't enough to expulse the worry that sat deep in her stomach, the lingering horror of her dream. Leia wandered, listless and jittery, until she found the only possible cure for what ailed her. Physical exertion. Controlled violence.

The training room was large: a converted officer's mess hall retrofitted with floor mats, blaster shields and moving targets. Three old combat droids had been scrounged from various campaigns and added to the room's inventory—two of which were currently broken and lying in pieces in the dimly-lit corner. The air was thick with sweat as she entered through the open hatch. Ugly red paint had been used to cover the many blaster burns that littered the hull. Half the mats had been cleaned and rolled for use of the next shift on duty; the rest were piled to the side, awaiting sterilization once the room's only occupant retired for the day.

Luke Skywalker fought a training droid, unarmed and clearly out of his depth. His hair stuck to his forehead and he moved with care, favoring one leg over the other. His training tank was drenched in sweat and he was barefoot on the mats. Clumsy and unsure, he sidestepped the droid but Leia could see that the setting was more than what Luke could handle. He was a fine pilot, a fantastic mechanic, a valiant defender of the meek and helpless… But in hand-to-hand combat the savior of the Alliance was wanting. Finesse was not a tradeable commodity on Tatooine the way it had been on Alderaan and it showed in the huddled, awkward set of Luke's shoulders.

He struggled, ducking beneath the droid's rangy uppercut. With a flick of his head he dislodged his sweat-soaked hair from his forehead and stepped in for a roundhouse kick, as obvious as if he had yelled a warning. The droid scurried away on its ancient motorized legs and then toppled Luke with a sizzling charge of low-energy stun bolts.

Luke groaned and fell to the ground with a _smack_, arms akimbo. Leia winced at the sound. He waved off the oncoming attack from the droid and lay panting on the mat, obviously frustrated with himself.

"That's why you train without the stun bolts until you're ready," she offered.

He turned startled eyes toward her, blinked and then dropped his head back. "Who said I'm not ready?"

"The mat. The droid. The fact that the droid put you on the mat."

Luke huffed a laugh. "Give me a break. It's early."

She nodded and smiled at him, moving across the training room to offer him a hand. As she helped him stand she noted the dark circles under his eyes, the pinched look of his lips, the way even his welcoming smile felt temporary and hollow.

"Couldn't sleep?" she asked.

He shrugged, wiped his face with a towel. "Is it obvious?"

Leia frowned, held her tongue. There was certainly enough anxiety to go around the Alliance. Food had been rationed for weeks; no one had stepped foot off _Home One _aside from the scouting runs and the advanced base-crew. The ranks were buzzing with cabin fever and High Command had run out of productive ways to treat it. Scouting missions were beginning to look useless because there was nothing around them except gravity wells and nothingness, and if the rest of the rebels didn't transfer to Echo Base soon, mutiny seemed likely.

Luke looked exactly like every other member of the Alliance: tired, wired and anxious.

"No, it's not obvious," she lied. "But I know you."

Luke seemed to brighten at her words and walked toward his small pile of personal items, tossed haphazardly to the floor in the corner.

She took a moment to warm up her body, loosened her muscles in preparation for the strain they were about to experience. Sparring with Luke wasn't exactly _easy_—no one was easy, hand-to-hand combat was more art than sport—but he didn't have the training of Vrix Fra Lein or Han's wiley theatrics, and was therefore flatly predictable. He'd get his blows in but they'd be glancing and light. Luke also seemed to pull his punches when he sparred with her; she wasn't sure if it was deference or fear but she'd been hopeful that she could rid him of the problem. The last thing she needed was for her people to treat her with kid gloves, particularly when she felt so jittery, exposed, with a secret she didn't dare tell anyone—

"And what about you?" Luke asked, breaking the spell. "Why are you up so early?"

"Couldn't sleep," she echoed him, distracted as she fought for control over her own mind. "Restless."

"Yeah."

She removed her boots and stepped onto the mat barefoot. With a quick step she began a light jog around the mat, knowing from experience that combat drills ended much better when her body was warm.

"I had a … Ah, I don't know what it was," Luke said out of nowhere.

Leia stopped, tilted her head to look at him.

"A nightmare, I guess, but it felt more real than a nightmare. You ever have those?"

Leia's stomach dropped and it was like the flashbacks she had whenever Alderaan crept into her nightmares. A sense of impending doom, a harbinger of disaster. Reality slipped, just for a moment, except it wasn't a fiery plume of ionized particles in front of her. It was a storm and a city in the clouds.

"What nightmare?" she asked.

"I honestly couldn't tell you," he said. "It was bad. It was like falling but there was nothing to catch me. I don't know."

She swallowed, intrigued and terrified. "Have you had this nightmare before?"

"No. But it felt familiar and … _Different._"

"Different how?"

He shrugged. "Maybe it's a Force thing. I don't know. Different."

And she wanted to tell him. Right then and there, she wanted to tell him about the marketplace, about Darth Vader and the stun bolts. About the way she'd felt so powerful, powerful enough to save Han from capture. The way she hadn't understood what she was capable of until Han and Salla and Chewie had all confirmed that she had indeed held energy in her body and then reissued it into their Imperial captors. There was holo-evidence hidden deep in the _Falcon_'s memory-banks. It was real, no matter how much she might want to pretend it wasn't. No matter how much she tried to deny it and keep it a secret.

But she couldn't tell him. The words were always gone when she tried. _I'm like you, _she wanted to say. _Help me protect myself. Help me._

She should. She _should. _But she couldn't. Acknowledging it to herself and to Han had been enough of a shock to her universe. Bringing Luke into it might shatter her completely. Telling Luke meant it was true, that she couldn't hide the power she had, no matter how much she might want to, no matter how much that power horrified her. The repercussions of her own unspeakable power. If she told Luke she'd have to tell Carlist, and Mon, and Jan and then everyone would know. It meant she was fundamentally different from the person she had always thought she was.

_I think you're like Luke, _Han had said. _I think you're a Jedi._

She'd described it as a dark well of power to Han but she was beginning to think it was more like quicksand. A slow fall. What would tip her over the edge? What power would she build up this time? What if it destroyed rather than protected? What if it hurt an innocent, or Luke or Han? What if she couldn't control it and it spelled doom for them all? Luke …. Luke could wield that power and not be corrupted by it. Leia was too angry, too afraid. She knew what monsters looked like and she would not become one.

She had to tell Luke. But not now.

"Han?"

Leia looked up, confused. She had tumbled into the darkness of her own fear and hadn't realized Luke was still speaking. "What?"

"How's Han doing?"

"He's … fine," she said.

But the lingering, unsettled feeling from her nightmare and the anxiety about the Jedi talk—as Han had repeatedly called it—became one bitter emotion, one suspicious and dark thing that she didn't trust. Because if this was going into deeper waters, if Luke was about to push her into yet another discussion about why Han and Leia needed to disclose their relationship to the Alliance at large—

_Another secret. One more to pile on._

"Why do you want to know?" she finished.

For a split second she hung in the anger of her own words, in how defensive they sounded. Luke didn't usually receive this kind of malice from her. He didn't deserve it. But the anger reigned supreme—bitter, suspicious, a wild animal outside of her control—and she felt trapped in a room without a window or door, watching her interactions with Luke as if she was far away from her own body.

He held up his hands in a gesture of retreat. "Just conversation, Leia, I swear."

"You're digging."

"Am not_,_" he said, and pulled a face. "I don't want details. _God._"

"Good. You aren't getting any."

Luke's teasing expression dropped like a stone. The light in his eyes dimmed and in them was resignation and hurt and it snapped her back to herself with a jolt. _This is Luke! _she reminded herself. _Your friend. _There wasn't an invasive bone in his body. And if she started turning on her own small circle of friends, who would she have left? Without Luke and Chewie and Han, who was she?

_You have them now, _a voice whispered. _But will they stay if you hurt them?_

"I'm sorry," she muttered. "Oh, Luke. I'm sorry. I'm a mess."

He pressed his lips together, shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Everything alright?"

"Yes. No. I don't know," she said. "I feel … conflicted."

"About Han?"

She shook her head. "He's the one part of all this that makes any sense to me."

Luke laughed and the sound made her smile.

"I know that sounds ridiculous," she continued. "I can imagine what others might think about that, but it's true. He makes sense to me. Everything else? It's an utter disaster."

"You can imagine," he quoted. "Meaning you haven't told anyone yet."

"We told _you,_" she defended.

"I put the pieces together. The _obvious _pieces. You didn't tell me anything I hadn't already figured out."

He didn't ask a question, so all she did was reply with, "Put up those hands, Skywalker. I need to punch something."

Luke grinned and Leia set to work: starting slow, starting light. Her blows were easy, unhurried, more warmup than fight, and it allowed her to talk through it.

"Janson keeps asking questions about Han and me," she said. "Almost caught us yesterday."

"Caught you doing what?"

She blushed. "I mean, caught us … we weren't … we were just talking, Luke."

"He almost caught you _talking,_" he said, pressing his lips together to suppress the smile. "Scandalous."

"Shut up."

"What happens when he catches you two _eating_ together? Standing in the same room?" Luke's smile broke through, like the sun through dark clouds. "The peasants will revolt!"

Leia grit her teeth and stepped into him, broaching his defensive stance with one swift step. "You're hilarious."

Luke blocked a quick jab to his throat with a forearm. He sidestepped and found his original point. "Wes has credits on you two. Can't blame him for being interested."

When Han and Leia had told Luke the first bit of news to come out of Nar Shaddaa—that they were sleeping together, because somehow that was so much easier than the other thing—one of his first reactions had been abject despair. Not because his hopes for a romance with Leia were dashed, he assured them. He claimed he'd grown out of that ridiculous hero-worshipping phase rather quickly after Yavin. No, Luke's despair was of a more financial disappointment than an emotional one.

The betting pool had been rampaging for months, he'd confessed, born out of Rogue Squadron's utter boredom with _Home One_'s recreational facilities. Luke had lost all his credits with a terrible hand of sabacc a week ago and he'd been forced to take his cred-chip out of commission until the debt was settled, a terrible fact for him because with one confirmation from either Han or her, Luke could have taken the whole pot.

Han hadn't appeared as shocked as he should have been by the existence of the betting pool. _Kill, Fuck or Love _it had been called and she'd been at least relieved that her best friend had firmly put his credits in the _love _category, even if he wasn't able to cash in his winnings. The men in her life had all been aware of it and while that felt distressing in and of itself, the fact that Han and Leia had been so obvious in their longing for each other told her that they needed some time to adjust before their relationship became public knowledge. Pressure could end relationships just as well as regular human faults could.

"I can and will blame Wes," she said. "It sounds like he's the one who started the betting pool in the first place."

Luke tilted his head, popped his neck. "What are you going to do? Report him for gross boredom? It's harmless."

She wasn't so sure about _harmless. _There wasn't a betting pool on Han and Luke being together, or Wedge and Janson or Janson and Hobbie. Only Han and Leia. There was an undercurrent of sexism there, but that wasn't the point.

"I wish you hadn't told me about that."

"The betting pool or that Wes is a sap?"

"Both," she said. "All of it."

Luke held up his hands and she resumed her attack, quicker now, more sustained. Three quick snaps. He ducked but her left got too close to his ear and he grunted under his breath.

"I mean, you guys can't keep this a secret forever. You know that, right?"

Leia didn't answer in words, choosing instead a one-two punch that came nowhere close to hitting him. He might be a sloppy fighter but he picked up signals pretty quick. Teachable, she'd say.

"Right?" he repeated.

She sighed. "You're right," she admitted. "We know you're right."

Luke pressed the advantage with a quick step toward her. "But?"

She focused on blocking Luke as he offered four quick but light punches toward her midsection. The movement felt good, the distraction a quick remedy. Like her physical self could take over for her brain, like she could expel the stress of her work and her secrets through a finite series of sidesteps and blocks.

When she found her words, they were unexpected. "But there's a part of me that wants to cherish it."

Everything else about her life was public knowledge within Alliance ranks. Her heartache, her devotion to the cause, her legal and diplomatic training and her vicious need to defeat the Empire. All of it was out there for their consumption. She knew she was a point of gossip, she knew her successes and failures were in demand. Her life up until now had been so extraordinary—orphan to adopted princess, princess to teenaged senator, senator to survivor of genocide—that it was only natural she would be a gossip darling. Even her friendship with Luke was a point of conversation: what did they even talk about with such vastly different backgrounds? Different sensibilities? He, from humble beginnings who had saved them all, and she from privilege who had sacrificed all for the greater good?

But her relationship with Han was different. It was so deeply personal. Her own small miracle. She wanted to protect it from all of that. The speculation, the gossip, the inquiring eyes and judgmental smiles. She wanted to hide it away in a part of herself that belonged only to Han, that was resistant to such paltry annoyances. Selfish, sure, but also desperately needed because there was a damn betting pool about her sex life. Talk about an invasion of privacy.

"You're not, uh, _ashamed _or anything, right?" Luke asked. "Like you don't regret—?"

"Why would I be ashamed?"

Luke stepped back and shrugged. "I don't know."

She pivoted, whipped them around the room. "Trust me, Luke. The last thing I am is ashamed of Han."

Leia flipped to the offensive, using her small size to her advantage. Quick blows to Luke's chest, an elbow into his stomach, a shoulder under his chin and he was once again on the ground, panting, looking dazed.

"Oh, good," he said with an edge of sarcasm. "Super glad you're having a good time."

"Embarrassing you is always a good time, Skywalker."

He mock-glared at her, stepped back and assumed his typical combat pose. "Fine," he said. "Have it your way."

Luke's attack was obvious but now it was also a little more desperate and Leia felt a small fire of satisfaction in her chest. Why she felt so good about making Luke lose a little control was beyond her; maybe it was like how Han felt when she acted a little less dignified in front of him.

She blocked his elbow to her stomach, pivoted around his quick punch, ducked under a second punch with his weaker side, then shoved her elbow into his kidney and when his back bowed, she dug a knee into his stomach. Luke wheezed and hit the mat again.

"The _hell, _Leia?" he said between deep, dragging breaths.

She smiled. "You have to learn to hide what you're going to do. It's like you're doing the Galacza. I know exactly how it goes."

"What's a Galacza?"

"Court dance, super boring," she said, and offered her hand to him again.

He stood up on his own, rejecting her hand and she tucked her satisfied smile away as he hobbled over to his water bottle with a distinct groan. The nightmare—or bad feeling or exhaustion or anxiety or whatever it had been—was forgotten in the pleasure of physical pain and effort, in the process of trying to teach Luke how to hide his intent, in how to use his weight to his advantage. This was physics, this was basic martial arts, free from secrets and love and fear. In this, she could find peace and she would hold onto the small reprieve with tight fists.

* * *

Commander Han Solo awoke alone in the princess's quarters and was pissed about it. The day unfurled before him in all its exquisite, painful truth: long and Leia-less, full of scouting missions and strategy meetings. The one bright spot in all the work was waking up with Leia, sliding his fingers across beautiful skin and nestling his nose into hair that smelled like Florian dewpetals. Sometimes they would find themselves too exhausted to enjoy each other after their long days; mornings were better. Slower, more personal, less frantic. Less about physical gratification and more about closeness. And in a startling turn of events, he found that in this small space, the beautiful, soft mornings with Leia in her bunk, or his, or even just seeing her across from him in a strategy meeting in the morning … That was all he needed to feel good about the day. A little Leia, that's all.

_You're a lost cause, _he thought, but only shrugged and threw his legs over the side of the bunk.

It didn't bother him to be so completely obsessed with his new relationship. Was _obsessed_ the right word? He didn't care. He liked this thing between them. He liked his new life, the responsibility. It was challenging and rewarding and, hell, when Leia looked at him like that, he was a goner for sure.

But she had left early this morning. Maybe he'd missed a comm call; she didn't usually forget to tell him when he would be waking up alone. They'd slipped into a kind of domestic comfort on _Home One _that mystified and startled him even as it made him feel safe and adored. Their relationship was new, of course, but he felt like they'd put in good time before the fireworks had happened. Maybe the payoff was an easier slide into whatever this was. Domesticity? Was it domesticity if you lived on a battle cruiser?

He jumped into the sonic stall, quickly dressed and made sure he didn't look as happily sleep-deprived as he felt. He had an image to maintain, after all, and facing his flight with any discernible weakness was the last thing he needed. Then he turned and faced the hatch with a twist to his lips. This was the trick of the day. Not commanding his pilots—that had seemed to come easier to him than he'd realized; goddamn it, Leia had been _right_—but the careful dance of leaving Leia's quarters without notice.

They didn't always sleep in her allotted quarters; sometimes they stayed on the _Falcon. _But Han and Leia were acutely aware that poor Chewbacca's audial abilities far exceeded their own. No matter how quiet they tried to be, Chewie would hear them, and that shit just wasn't fair. Han knew from experience. When Malla and Chewie were together, he got the hell outta dodge and let them have their time.

So subterfuge was the routine for now. And it wasn't like he'd never snuck out of a being's quarters before.

Han took a deep breath and opened the hatch just enough for him to poke his head out and assess the corridor. Long and scuffed, the bulkheads unfurled before him with breathless length. Dark shapes were visible to his left but they were so far away he doubted they would even notice which hatch he had come from. The crossways to his right looked free and so he gunned it, hopping out of the hatch and feeling relief as the door closed behind him with a soft hiss.

He swiped a hand through his unruly hair and assumed an unconcerned gait, loping and nonchalant. Leia called it _his swagger_ and he kind of liked the way she said it, like he had some kind of power to assume his criminality at will.

_That swagger, _she'd said just last week. _You break hearts with a walk like that._

He'd considered her words and then offered a shrug. _I'm okay with that, long as it isn't yours._

Focused on the memory of Leia's soft, appreciative smile, he didn't notice the impending confrontation until far too late. _So much for a swagger, _he thought as he came face-to-face with the dopey, twinkling, eternally-teasing face of Wes Janson.

"Hey-oh, Commander," he called. "What're you doing here this early?"

Janson was born to be a fighter pilot: short, compact, quick and confident. Always keen for a joke, he was the perfect compliment to Luke's Rogue Squadron and a foil for Hobbie Kivian's constant pessimism. Recently, he'd been known to stalk through the corridors of _Home One _as a kind of glorified hall monitor after a recent debacle with Jan Dodonna in which Janson had dyed all the general's uniforms a glaring, obnoxious shade of pink.

Han turned the full force of his command onto Luke's pilot. "Officer's quarters."

"Thought you slept on the _Falcon."_

"I did. _I do_. I—uh, had a meeting," Han said, trying valiantly to give his brain time to awaken. "Fuckin' meetings, am I right?"

A pause. Silence. Han's heart thumped wildly.

"Right," Wes said. "Meetings."

Han panicked. Shoving his hands deep into his pockets, he rocked back on his heels and demanded he get control over himself.

"Why are _you _here so early?" he asked.

Janson blinked. "Dodders' version of latrine duty," he said. "Could have done a lot worse but I think Luke stepped in."

Han shrugged. "Luke's a softie."

"Clearly you've never failed a sim with him," Janson said. "Didn't think Jedi knew Huttese. Commander can swear like a spacer."

"He's from Tatooine." Han said, and that was statement enough. Fucking planet was a trash heap. Of course Luke knew how to tell his pilots to shut the fuck up in twelve languages. "Hey, Wes, I gotta run. More meetings."

Janson nodded. "Yeah, man. Go ahead. I'll keep watching the officer's corridor. Never know what you'll see at this hour."

Han fought the sneer that came to his lips—Wes was fishing, that was all, no need to worry—and resumed his saunter down the corridor. _Gotta be more careful, _he thought. _Or we're gonna get caught._

And yet, still, he couldn't bring himself to regret the morning, or the night before or the night to come, when they'd dodge notice again. Time with Leia was enough. Time with Leia was always, always enough.

* * *

Caught in the darkest pits of a dying neutron star, the _Executor _hung in stillness. Her massive shape dwarfed the two other Star Destroyers just off to starboard. Three flights of TIEs flew into her docking bays; they looked like swarming Ngoth wasps. Petty and small and dangerous.

Beneath the grandeur of overwhelming Imperial might and scuttled into his private quarters, Darth Vader sat on an uncomfortable, high-backed chair. Rigid and straight, he sat in the tight confines of his oxygen chamber, eyes closed, mouth open as the air hissed around him. Sound deprivation was a key factor in his decision to make the _Executor _his flagship. Creature comforts were none of his concern but privacy and the somewhat-strangling feeling of the oxygen chambers was a priority. Never mind that his wounds would never heal; never mind that the oxygen treatments were not sustaining whatever life it was he had left.

He could focus here. He could fulfill his master's orders here. Nothing else mattered.

He was fully open to the Force, felt the tendrils of power slither through him, around him. It bent to his will, curved where he wanted. Lines became parabolas. Light became darkness. He could twist matter into nothingness with just the clenching of a fist, could end a life in the blink of an eye. The power was uncomfortable, grating. It did not wrap around him, lift him, as it used to. But in the shadow of that infantile understanding was power, unadulterated potential, and that was all that mattered.

_Coming, _he thought. _I'm coming._

He wasn't sure if they understood; they were both wholly untrained. Their awareness of the Force was limited by both their age, their idealism and naivete, and the fact that they were somehow hidden from him. He could not tell if they were together, physically in the same place, or if they were worlds apart. He didn't know where they were—Obi-Wan's tricks had been maddening to Anakin Skywalker and they were infuriating to Vader—but he tried nonetheless.

In the starless expanse of the empty Force—the field of players eradicated except for his master and himself—he could see them. Two nebulae: newborns, really. Their power was limited, quiet. Dimmed. And he knew they were not dim in terms of Force sensitivity: the Princess' strength had been obvious to him in the marketplace on Nar Shaddaa and Skywalker was his progeny.

They were dim because Obi-Wan had made them so.

Vader had hunted down and eliminated countless survivors of his master's decree. He was well-versed in how to see the stars in the expanse. And yet these two, these last two, they eluded him. They dimmed, they burst, they moved. As he got closer they pulled away, or shot across the expanse with the speed of that decrepit ship they insisted on flying. Part of him marveled at Obi-Wan's ingenuity.

_I'm coming, _he whispered into the expanse.

It was only a matter of time until he succeeded. And then he would have them for himself, would have the resources he needed to take his place as the ultimate power in the galaxy. He would be patient for the moment. He would send dark, twisted messages to them, leave them on edge without knowing why. And when the time was ripe, he would strike.

It was only a matter of time.

* * *

_Author's Note: Chapter 3 will post on Sunday, December 1st. Thank you!_ -KR


	3. The Mercs

_The Mercs_

* * *

Han's pre-mission briefing took place in the port mess hall of _Home One _and had all the decorum of a raunchy game of sabacc. His pilots—twenty-two in all—lounged around the tables like the misbehaved miscreants they were: boots on chairs and shirts untucked, arguing loudly about the relative incongruity of S-foil degradation rates in acidic climates. To Han's mind it was a patently stupid discourse; X-wings were notoriously clunky in atmosphere. But pilots were pilots and would argue with other pilots with their last breaths, if they could swing it.

The grip of surrealism took him again, as it always did when he found himself walking into a briefing. In what universe would he have _ever _imagined himself a commander in the Rebel Alliance? In what universe would he have ever imagined himself _liking it?_

Life was weird like that.

Friendly sneers and a few affectionate eyerolls greeted him when he entered. Not a single one of his pilots wore proper Alliance-issue flight-suits; Han wasn't wearing one either. Their apparel aside, they were diverse in character, edgy, a little cagey when asked about personal details or backgrounds, not at all what the Alliance seemed to prefer. Han's flight couldn't represent how High Command saw him any better if everyone had worn identical spacer garb like little Solo clones. Restless with unused energy, feet tapped, fingers clawed at the tables and the hall echoed with Basic and several other languages, hurled through the recycled air at what felt like the speed of light. He caught some Ubese in the mix and tried very hard to forget the conversation he'd had with Leia a few days ago, about second and third and fourth languages, how together they had a good few to choose from and how goddamned beautiful Leia was when she blushed and cursed in every language she knew.

He wiped his free hand over his mouth and tried to clear his head.

Their official designation was _Green Squadron, _though that was not the favored name. Too generic, too rule-abiding and lawful. It reeked of tradition: Alliance squadrons had been color-coded by skill for years now. The Rogues had been Red Squadron at Yavin, he remembered, and Blue and Yellow Squadrons were still in regular service.

Naturally, tradition hadn't settled well with his flight. _Green Squadron_ worked fine in drills and would be fine in a skirmish. If they ever got to one, that is. But in typical style, his squadron had been equally bold in adopting their own designation, one that High Command vociferiously denied using and thought was patently stupid. They'd embraced the petname the Rogues had given them. The _Mercs_, short for mercenaries. The vagabonds, the former contractors. The jaded criminals who'd joined the cause as a last-ditch effort to plant the seed of a better life in a hypothetical future.

No other commander had been willing to take these mouthy degenerates to the sims, much less out in battle. But once the news had gone out that he'd been commissioned and named commander, the other contractors who'd signed up had flocked to his roster.

Han hadn't been all that worried, though High Command certainly had some opinions on the matter. Carlist Rieekan had called it _an unusual command _and Han had overhead Jan Dodonna call them _a disaster and a disgrace to the Alliance. _Since he himself was both of those things, Han had felt no compunctions about leading them anywhere they were assigned. It helped that Leia felt the command suited him. She inspired a bit of hope in him.

And so here was his command: a bunch of loud, obstinate lowlifes who didn't like being led by anyone who wasn't of their own ilk.

Six weeks in and he was making headway. Camaraderie was up even as the rations got slimmer. Their sim scores improved every time he took them in; they logged more hours than anyone else on _Home One _by a long shot. Many of his pilots flew their own spacecraft and he was getting better at strategizing how to best use their motley assortment of ammunition and speed designations. They were a work in progress. Han just wished they'd stop caring about what everyone else in the Alliance was doing.

"Alright," he said as he strode to the smaller table they'd designated as his command seat, an old nerfhide sack thrown over his shoulder. "Settle down."

Eyes turned to him, antennae swiveled in his direction, but little else changed, boots still up on the tables, pilots lounging around as if they owned the place.

"We got another scouting run today. Easy perimeter sweep, nothing too advanced, but it'll give us a chance to work on that big-top maneuver we haven't figured out yet. And if you could work hard not to clip each other's wings this time, I'd really fucking appreciate it."

Soft laughter around the room. "Yeah, Frali," a female said to Han's left. "Keep yer wings to yerself."

"Shut the fuck up, Kral," Frali replied good-naturedly.

Han knew before she spoke who would voice the next barb, turning amused eyes to the beautiful, tall woman sitting to his left. Her long arms were crossed over her chest and she had the heel of one spacer's boot on the lip of her chair. Her dark skin shone in the harsh overhead lighting and the tight bun on top of her head belied an explosion of black, curly, natural hair. Her blaster rig sat low on her thigh and she looked chronically unimpressed with any of what was happening.

"I wouldn't shoot my mouth off if I were you," Salla Zend said with a sweet smile no one believed for a second. "Considering."

Han hid his smile. Thank the fucking stars for Salla. Smart, quick on her feet, ambitious; her designation as his executive officer had been inevitable. They worked well together and she respected his relationships with both Chewie _and_ Leia the same way he respected hers with a Chev named Prisht, something he hadn't considered until Chewie himself had brought it up. Salla and he had a history, sure, but that shit had been aired out and she felt more like a … a friend? A sister? Someone he could trust to not stab him in the back at the nearest opportunity. The only other person he would have chosen as his XO would have been Chewie, but Chewie was useless on a comm unless the entire Alliance suddenly started understanding Shyriiwook. And the furball had been adamant that Salla was the better choice: someone he could trust and also someone who could rally a group around him, if he needed her to. And it made sense, too; if the _Falcon _got destroyed in battle, the squadron needed a leader to take over and Salla flew her own ship.

Salla had said she'd joined the Alliance just a few days after Han not because she was a follower but because the events at Nar Shaddaa had opened her eyes to the larger conflict at play. She'd always had a little more faith than him, a little more willingness to believe in the metaphysical and since she'd been the one to start talking about _mistryka _in the first place, it only made sense that she'd eventually agree to fight alongside one. Salla more than anyone understood the stakes.

When princesses started blocking stun blasts with their hands, it made a thinking person think.

Han turned to watch the reaction to Salla's quick takedown. Kral, a former slaver from Commenor, had no right to criticize anyone with the way her sims had looked the past few days. Something was stuck in that massive brain of hers and Han couldn't quite figure it out. The drill he had planned for the scouting run this afternoon would hopefully help rattle something loose and move her sim scores out of the fresher and up with the rest of theirs.

Han caught Kral's eye, nodded and then resumed the briefing. "Our quadrant is in the Blue Sector, Zone 266, twenty degrees to—"

A loud chorus of groans interrupted him and he rolled his eyes. Yeah, High Command had a low-as-shit opinion of the Mercs and it showed on the duty roster. Zone 266 was a graveyard of absolutely nothing, ust a bunch of gravity wells and space trash. There was no reason to survey it, other than that they were being jerked around until they fucked up. Set up to fail.

And yet Han took his command seriously. Despite a few inevitable personality clashes, his flight was solid. Kral's sim scores—so much lower than everyone else's in the squadron—were still three classes higher than the average Alliance pilot's. Most of them wouldn't beat Luke or the Rogues in the sim, but they were _good._ They were tried-and-true pilots blacklisted because of their pasts, problem-solvers who'd been tested in the crucible of Imperial kill lists. Many of them were former employees of the Hutts. Han was certain they'd make an impact in their first engagement with the Empire, if the big-wigs ever let them fight.

"It's a shitty assignment," Han conceded, and the voices quieted. "They're all shitty assignments. And we're gonna have to work harder than anyone else to be taken seriously. We all know that."

A couple nods, a twist to Salla's lips. They knew where they stood in the Alliance hierarchy. No surprises there.

"But lighten up, kids. We're going to have some fun," Han said and upended the sack, the contents falling onto the table.

Out spilled twenty-two holocard packs of old-fashioned playing cards. Not the kind one saw in the casinos anymore; the ones you'd find in rundown cantinas with a busted sabacc set-up. Physical cards, something someone could touch, feel.

"No food?" an Ilia yelled from the corner.

"The hell are we going to do with those?" Shin-Pe asked.

Han looped his fingers through his belt-loops, hoping against hope that his ploy would work. "We're going to _play_."

* * *

The plan was simple: work on multitasking. Their issues of late—the clipped wings on their scouting missions and, Han suspected, Kral's low sim scores—had more to do with his pilots' split focus than lack of ability. They weren't social pariahs, not quite, but they sure as hell didn't enjoy the kind of uproar and validation most of the other flights did. They kept to themselves, were considered classless and without merit.

That got in a pilot's head sometimes. Ego was part of the package; pilots needed some outrageous confidence to do what the job required. And that was the name of the game, how the galaxy worked. By ostracizing them, by putting all the lowlifes together, the Alliance told them they were worthless. Expendable. Fodder for the blaster cannons. He needed his pilots to be able to shrug it off and focus.

He needed to focus, too.

The starfield in front of him was magnanimous and empty. The _Millennium Falcon _hummed all around him, his baby keeping him safe. It was good to stretch his spacer's legs, to feel the real deal in the heartless black of space. Sims were good but nothing beat this view, this feeling, the power and powerlessness in being a sentient being in vacuum. That, and the Alliance sims only offered one YT-1300 option and it was nothing compared to the _Falcon. _Better to run this drill—however risky—outside of the sim, where consequences were real and no one got a re-do.

He took a deep breath, toggled the comm and began.

"Green Leader to Green Squadron, here are the game rules. You can't cheat. You can't crash. The minute you do either, you're out."

"And dead," Green Eight quipped.

Chewbacca huffed a laugh in the _Falcon_'s copilot's chair and Han shot him an exasperated look as he muted the comm.

_What? He is not wrong, _the Wookiee chortled.

"You don't have to _say it_, pal. Shit."

_They do not understand me anyway, there is no harm._

Han opened his mouth with a smart retort, then closed it and nodded. He turned back to the viewport and conceded the point, reopening the comm channel.

"Thrallian sabacc rules minus the randomizer. Queen of Darkness beats all. Once you have her, you win. Game over."

"Green Three to Green Leader," Kral said. "This is a stupid game. Each deck has four queens and we've got twenty-two decks."

"There's 80 fucking queens roaming around here, Green Leader," Qiee said.

"Then it'll be easy to win," Han said. "Green Squadron on me. Let's get this party started."

The Mercs tightened their formation—a modified three-dimensional pyramid—and set out with the _Millennium Falcon _at its point. Han set the heading for the appropriate sector; it would be a quick trip of maybe an hour, including the ride there and back. No sweat.

The Alliance had taken to scouting out the local areas around _Home One. _The rebels' surveillance droids would pick up anything in the immediate area but further out could be a mystery. Most of the space around the Alliance—ninety-six percent or so—was nothing but emptiness and gravity wells.

Every squadron had their rotation for scouting missions. Most had some sort of system—even an asteroid belt or a far-flung former-moon—that might mask an Imperial probe or a TIE fighter. But Zone 266 had nothing and they had scouted that nothing sixteen times in the past three weeks.

_Are we playing, too? _Chewie growled hopefully.

Han smiled but shook his head. "We're the grown-ups."

_How boring, _Chewie huffed.

"Tell me about it. Commanding sucks."

The thing was… It _didn't_. This whole exercise had been the product of a middle-of-the-night brainstorm session he'd had with Leia. He'd complained endlessly about Kral and her low sim scores, about the inability of his squadron to hold formation while approaching enemy combatants. He'd worried about Imperial ambushes and the fact that the Mercs were just plain not ready to engage as part of a squadron. They were individuals, brilliant alone but not used to covering anyone else's backs and he needed them to use their experience to their advantage, to care about each other.

"_They're not thinking with their heads," _he'd complained in the early hours of the morning, in bed with Leia, as she read supply reports on her datapad. "_They're good pilots on their own but you put 'em with each other and they fall apart."_

Leia had adjusted the bedsheet around herself, tilted her head. "_What are they thinking with if not their heads?"_

"_Egos," _he'd muttered.

"_So then bait their egos," _she'd said. "_What would have worked for you if you were in their position?"_

He hadn't been able to answer her question right away, had been distracted by the softness of her hair and the way she looked genuinely interested in the worries of his command. But later, after she'd slipped to sleep against his chest, he'd considered it over and over again for hours.

What would've worked for him? A challenge. Plain and simple. Something to brag about.

So Han had concocted a way to challenge them: a card game played in their cockpits. Thrallian sabacc rules were the simplest. One card would win the pot, and since Thrallian sabacc was played with each player in separate rooms—to avoid cheating—it was the only kind of game that fit. He'd never liked Thrallian sabacc; he liked bluffing and cheating. Watching the other players sweat, make mistakes, finding their tells. He thrived on it. In fact, he found everything else boring as hell. The only reason he'd ever won a sabacc game in his life was because he was good at reading people, even if his bluffs didn't always pan out for some reason.

_They only have to find and play a Queen of Darkness? _Chewie asked.

Han nodded.

_You didn't make it that easy for them._

Han grinned. "Sure, I did."

But Chewie was having none of it. _Where are all the queens, Cub?_

"In our main hold," he answered with an innocent look after checking to make sure the comm was silenced. "Why?"

Chewie whuffed a laugh, brought up the deflector shields and opened up their full sensor array.

"Alright, Mercs," Han said into his comm. "Who's first?"

* * *

Salla figured it out pretty quickly and that didn't surprise Han in the least. He'd seen her suspicious eyes as he'd dismissed the flight to their ships, the twist to her lips that told him she didn't think he was on the up-and-up. That, and he'd never actually been any good at lying to Salla when they'd been together. It was one of the many reasons he'd scampered off in the middle of the night when he'd left her so many years ago.

"You took out all the fucking queens, didn't you, Slick?"

Chewie laughed and Han smiled with him, marvelling over his copilot's change of heart. The Wookiee had slowly found some trust in Salla, even though she still struggled to understand him.

_Zend is clever, _he growled.

Han nodded but focused on the comm. "That's Green Leader to you, Green Two."

"Fine. Green Two to Green Leader, you're a goddamn _cheat. _Over."

"Don't know what you're talking about."

"Green Fourteen to Green Leader, let me get it on the record that this is a stupid game."

"Green Leader to Green Flight, whine and bitch all you want, but I'd like to point out that none of you morons have missed your mark so far."

And it was true. The gambit had worked like a charm; focused on their individual deck of holocards at the helms of their beaten and battered ships, the Mercs had managed a passable big-top loop _three times. _A record for his group. No collisions, no clipped wings. With their attention split three ways—on the game, on their maneuvering and on their sensor suites—Green Squadron had risen above themselves and managed a halfway decent run. And he'd preen and boast about that until they all got it through their thick, dumb skulls that they could function like a real Alliance flight if they just focused a little.

Without looking or speaking, Chewie held out a paw for Han to slap in victory. Han matched him with a quick grin and then ordered one more pass through the big-top maneuver to make sure the other runs hadn't been flukes. No one could ever accuse him of trusting too easily.

And yet, ten minutes later, even _he _had to concede that the Mercs had managed several passable big-tops. His grin broadened, watching the kids scramble and adjust as they tore through space-time like hungry lothcats. He loved everything about it: the challenge, the success, the badgering and big talk as the squadron got more and more comfortable, as they changed the rules and began playing a Chandrilian kids card game that he had not been invited to join.

He supposed that was fair.

"Look at that, our time is up," he said into the comm minutes later, proud and satisfied his point had been made. "Green Leader to Green Flight, let's head back home—"

A squawk pierced the still air of the _Falcon_'s cockpit, loud and high-pitched. Then a rush of electronic static like a wave, bursting through the comm speakers and enveloping the whole squadron. It was deafening, unbearable and overwhelming sound that left Han's eardrums ringing. He winced and grabbed for the comm volume even as he knew he couldn't turn it all the way off or he'd never hear the Merc's calls for help.

"Chewie!" he yelled to be heard over the noise. "What is this?"

Poor Chewie's auditory senses were clearly hurting him. He had a long arm wrapped over his head to cover his ears, trying to stave off the worst of it, and his other hand flew over the sensor controls. Han could tell he was furiously trying to determine the source of the awful noise. Han squeezed his eyes shut and tried to refocus but the sound rang in his ears, echoing, hurting the very center of his skull. Even the lights of the _Falcon_'s console seemed unbearably bright.

And then the sound was gone, abruptly cut off, leaving the _Falcon_'s cockpit empty and quiet.

"Green Two to Green Leader," Salla's voice, etched in worry. "I'm not reading anything. What was that?"

Han blinked, shook his head. "No idea, Green Two," he replied. "Chewie, where'd it come from?"

_Sensor array to port, sixteen klicks away._

"Green Ten to Green Leader, I picked it up, too. Looks like a foreign object. Signal burst to unknown location."

Han grit his teeth. "Imperial probe?"

"Looks that way."

Han flipped power into the turret guns and turned to Chewie. Without any questions, the Wookiee took manual control of the turrets and lowered the secondary environmental controls to boost power into the sublight engines.

"Anybody's instruments telling them _why_ we all got deafened for a spell there?" he asked.

A standard probe didn't create sounds like that and an Imperial probe _definitely _didn't. Imperial probes were built to emit light only, transmitting signals through lightwaves rather than soundwaves. Faster, clearer, easier to document.

"Green Nine to Green Leader, I think I might have an idea," a deep voice said. Green Nine, a genderfluid Slyfix named For-Na, seemed completely unbothered by the noise. Perhaps Slyfix auditory organs didn't operate the same way other humanoids' did. Han felt a twinge of jealousy for them.

"What do you have, Nine?"

"It's a heavy electromagnetic cloud. At least, I think it is. There's no way to be certain, but my panel reads as static interference and I don't know what else could cause it."

Han sat back in his chair, swept his eyes over the viewport, forming a cohesive plan. After a moment he cleared his throat and ordered, "Green Flight, we're checking it out. Hold form, keep sensors on high power. You got anything in your ship's bag of tricks, now's the time to share."

"Green Six to Green Leader, permission to take your flank. My girl's got her gravity turret gun."

"Copy, Six," Han said. "Greens on Six and me. Sensors up, shields up. Set marks for unknown object at point three-two-two."

"Roger, Leader," Salla said. "What do you want to do? Destroy or capture?"

Han considered it, the gravity of her question sinking in. The beauty of the Mercs was that several of their ships were smuggling freighters or souped-up engineering rigs. If the Rogues had been scouting this quadrant, they would only be able to destroy it or tow it back to _Home One, _and towing space debris around was a ludicrous waste of resources and fuel. But the Mercs had open holds, some of them with radiation-shielded compartments. They had the ability to tow the object back without any unnecessary dramatics.

He imagined what Luke or Leia would say if they were here.

"Green Eleven, your radiation shields working okay?" he asked.

"Affirmative, Green Leader. She's purring like a spaznik."

"Great. Then let's take her in and put her to work."

Han took a deep breath and set his sights for point three-two-two, watching the Mercs fill into a perfect big-top formation to scout the unknown object. He almost smiled. They'd found their queen all by themselves, just in the nick of time.

* * *

Han led the Mercs into their assigned bay and then swept beneath the hull of _Home One _to dock the _Falcon _in her starboard equivalent. He grimaced when he saw most of High Command congregating around where the loading ramp would descend. Through the viewport, they looked tiny and petulant, a hilarious group, past its respective prime.

He tried hard not to appear as if he was looking for one member of High Command in particular, but when he checked the edges of the group, he couldn't see her. _Must be at the other docking bay, _he thought. It would be in-character for Leia to want to see the probe first.

Chewie rumbled a cheerful sound about going to talk to their superior officers and Han added his own confident _hell yeah. _Meetings with High Command didn't cause him any stress, but they weren't at the top of his list of people with whom he wanted to spend time. They exhausted him. All rules and protocols and charters, life-and-death, the Empire, blah blah blah. He understood why they had to be that way; rather, Leia had tried to explain why they had to be that way. With the exception of Leia and Carlist Rieekan they just weren't his kind of people . Too stuffy, too stuck in their ways; it often felt like a war-within-a-war, like they barely tolerated him and saw him as a necessary nuisance.

But today he had won. Today he had proved that they needed him and his people, that High Command needed to respect the Mercs. He was confident in his squadron, confident that they had done the right thing when they had Teso capture the probe and lock it in his radiation-shielded compartments. He had every right to swagger his way down the ramp.

Pride sat high in his chest, the knowledge that he had accomplished something incredible in the face of general disapproval, that he had shown a bunch of assholes that their judgement was wrong. And not just wrong about himself but about the Mercs, too. No one else could have done it better; the Alliance was lucky it had been the Mercs on duty today.

_Take that, old man, _he thought in the direction of Jan Dodonna.

His walk down the ramp had to look insufferably cocky. It really was too bad Leia wasn't here.

"Not bad for a bunch of mercenaries, huh?" he said as he hit the end of the ramp.

Several mouths turned down, with the exception of Rieekan, who hid his amusement with a purse of his lips. "Not bad at all," the Alderaanian said. "Fine work."

"Indeed," Dodonna added. It looked like the words cost Jan a few years of his life.

The older man crossed his arms over his chest, stubbornness set in his shoulders and his nearly-permanent scowl.

Han grinned at Dodonna's reluctant praise, the one positive word the man had ever uttered in his presence. "Ah, Jan, don't look so upset. I'm sure I'll screw up something for you soon."

Dodonna's eyes squinted and his lips seemed to disappear into a thin, disapproving line. "_General Dodonna, _Solo. And we could only be so lucky."

Han's smirk broadened, obnoxious and triumphant. Dodonna's annoyance was like manna; Han could live in a sea of it and never feel satisfied.

"Thank you, Commander, for your work today," a deep female voice said to his right.

Han's heart tripped all over itself, a genuine smile broke over his lips and his eyes whipped to find her quicker than the _Falcon _ripped through open space on a speed test.

_Leia. _

Small in the midst of the group of old, bitter men, she shone bright to him, like a star, a supergiant at the center of an unremarkable planetary system. Her hair was braided and wrapped around her head in a no-nonsense style and she wore a mix of standard Alliance-issue fatigues. Countless beings in their motley group wore this same ensemble every damn day… And yet she looked like the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen in his life.

Her eyes were bright on his, though the rest of her expression was remarkably unaffected: her full lips, her dark eyelashes, the long sweep of fair skin on her throat, all of it enchanting him, making him feel stupid and happy, even as he fought the urge to grin like a lovesick Zarian.

"No problem," he said instead, and shoved his hands in his pockets.

He held her eyes a beat too long, he could tell, because suddenly Carlist's eyes felt like ion beams on his face. But Han couldn't help it. It was like seeing the world around him in a split-screen holo: he saw Leia Organa as she was now, indomitable and fierce leader of a revolution; the way everyone else saw her.

But then he could also remember her dark eyes on him last night when she pressed those beautiful lips to his with such ferocity that it had stopped his breath. The way she had looked so trusting, so seductive as she knelt in front of him, eyes bright in the dim light. Her whispered cries as he'd returned the favor, the way she'd whispered his name like a prayer.

_Han, oh, Han, yes…_

Heavy, the connection between them. Visceral. It could be felt in every particle of the air, the way they stared at each other, the helpless wanting that enveloped them.

This was becoming a problem. The last thing he wanted was to give away their secret before Leia was ready. But he couldn't do it, couldn't pretend he didn't love this woman with everything he had, that his priorities hadn't fundamentally changed from self-service to adoring and taking care of her for the rest of his life, if he had anything to say about it.

"—and Diagnostics should have a report within a few hours. Did it look like it was of Imperial manufacturing? Solo?"

Han's eyes found his commanding officer's. "I didn't get a good look at it."

"But the lights were out?" Carlist pressed.

Han turned to him, noted the slight tilt to the general's head, the careful expression that Han suspected might indicate deeper understanding. "No lights. But the static burst makes me nervous."

"Why?" Leia asked.

"It could mean anything," he began. "But we got an earful of static interference just before we found the probe."

Dodonna shifted, uncomfortable. "And so?"

"Imp probes use light transmission tech to send coded messages, which is why their lights are always on. This one could be an old Imperial probe."

"In which case the lights have burnt out and we're safe," Leia finished for him.

He nodded. "Or it could be a probe from a pirate clan. Maybe Black Sun. Maybe a Hutt syndicate. Someone else who might be scouting the area."

A pause in which Han felt a flicker of unease. He wasn't sure where it came from but the unease settled into his gut like a seed planted in fertile soil. There was a third possibility here, too, one he didn't want to consider. One that carried with it the inexorable evil who hunted Luke and Leia like a fiend, who promised death wherever he walked...

Han tried to mask his sudden shift in mood, tried to look unconcernedly at the assembled generals around him, the deckplates firm beneath his feet and the loftiness and superiority surrounding High Command like a cloud. But the seed took root and now he could feel it slipping through his chest like Sunflare Ivy. Fear shot through him and he realized that there was one more very real possibility, one that threatened everything he'd built for himself, everything he loved.

_What if it's Vader? _he thought. _What if he's trying something new?_

* * *

Leia left the High Command briefing room with a hint of a smile on her lips, one she couldn't and didn't particularly _want _to contain. The other members of High Command were worried, grave expressions showing the depth of their anxiety and notes of concern in their hushed voices. She could feel it, too, in her chest; it wasn't _not _there. The discovery of the probe was troubling, even if it hadn't been definitively identified as Imperial yet. It spelled doom in letters so big anyone could see them, could feel them as they hovered over their heads.

But even so, Leia's eyes were bright. She was happy, proud and felt lifted, like riding a wave.

Self-awareness wasn't always her specialty but even _she_ could feel the sharp right-angle of avoidance in her breaking smile. The probe was dangerous, a relic from a life that threatened annihilation every second of every day. And while nothing had changed in her physical circumstances, her emotional buoyancy was out of her control. She just wasn't able to mimic the stern hostility she'd worn so convincingly the past two years, since her capture over Tatooine and the subsequent destruction of her world. Her default setting had changed; she felt light, happy for the first time in memory. The discrepancy between who she was supposed to be and who she was nagged at her in short, quiet moments, but she also wanted to soak up the warmth in her chest and hold onto it with every fiber of her being. Who cared if she smiled after a dour meeting? Who the hell cared? No one who mattered, that was for sure.

_Han. _She let the smile break as she turned the corner toward the corridor that led to the starboard docking bay. The enormous hangar seemed quiet, muted, and she paid no mind to the pilots and mechanics working near her quick trek to the _Millennium Falcon. _She supposed her facade was crumbling by the footstep: smile broad as the daylight none of them had seen in weeks.

_But I don't care, _she repeated to herself. Despair had done nothing for her in the past. She resolved to take this spark of joy and treasure it.

She found him fuming in the cockpit, feet up on the console and a sour twist to his lips. He hadn't changed from his ubiquitous ensemble when she'd been here earlier. Black, tight-fitting trousers covered strong thighs, untucked white shirt leaving just enough skin visible to be on the far side of appropriate. He wore his typical black utility vest, too, and his blaster hung off his hip like an extension of his body. His boots were scuffed right at the heel and with a jolt Leia realized they were more than likely the same ones he had worn in the marketplace on Nar Shaddaa. She shook her head. He must have repaired them himself at some point.

On the ramp he had looked strong, aggressive, forthright and commanding. A man to be reckoned with, a presence that demanded respect. But here, now, in the privacy of his home, he looked softer, more thoughtful. Less commanding and more contemplative.

Goddess, he was spectacular. She could look at him for hours and be left unsatisfied.

She watched him unnoticed, relishing the rare opportunity. Gone was the bravado, the at-times-insufferable confidence and in its place was the Han she loved best, the Han he only allowed a few trusted people to see. Vulnerable in a way he wasn't with Jan and the others in the room. This Han cared deeply about things, about people, even if he didn't always admit it.

A private smile played on her lips, the sweet taste of secrecy on her tongue. She had respected the man on the ramp, the commander who had led his squadron with bravery and intelligence. But _this man… _Warmth bloomed beneath her skin as she took him in. This was the man she adored, a complicated man driven by sometimes inexplicable motives but always finding his way to the greater good. For that, he made her proud and soft and vulnerable, too.

"Hey, Sweetheart," he said without looking up, eyes still trained on the flimsy.

She shook her head and stepped through the open hach. So much for covert ogling and dreamy fantasies.

"Hi," she said and slid into the space between the pilot and copilot's seats, turning her back on the viewport to face him. "You had an exciting day."

He made an unintelligible sound deep in his throat.

"Carlist issued a warning to High Command right we talked," she continued. "We're awaiting a report from Diagnostics to debate evacuation orders."

"Huh."

Her smile dropped like a stone at his tone. She shifted, crossed one foot over the other and tried to ignore the discomfort of leaning against the console. She could probably sit in Chewie's chair without a reaction from Han; she'd done it before in battle. But Leia didn't quite know the rules when the _Falcon _wasn't under attack and she didn't want to be presumptuous. And clearly Han was in a bad mood; she knew enough about his limits now to avoid a fight.

Most of the time.

"I saw the footage," she began. "They looked good. Focused. What did you do?"

Han's eyes met hers for the first time since she entered the cockpit. "Got creative," he said. "Worked just in time, too. We could barely see through that electromagnetic mess. Did you see how dense that thing was? The cloud the probe was hiding in?"

Leia shook her head. High Command had only seen the Mercs on approach, not what their instrumentation had been picking up.

"Damn near took off Salla's canopy; the thing fried up all the _Intruder_'s navigational systems for a few minutes. Only reason we got the probe was because of Teso's radiation shields. We almost didn't find it at all."

She nodded and lifted her hips to sit on her hands. Whatever Han had done with the Mercs had prevented a disastrous collision with the probe and from what he'd told her in the past few weeks, his pilots might not have been quick enough to survive it had he not addressed the issue head-on. Han's ingenuity in commanding his squadron had been on broad display.

Her smile slowly started to reappear, kick-started by the man in front of her. If she had ever had any doubts about Han's ability to lead a flight group of his own—even a disorganized and haphazardly-constructed flight like the Mercs—they had been soundly dashed. Han was every bit the calm and competent leader she'd known he could be.

"I'm proud of you," she whispered.

Han blinked at her, tilted his head, crinkled the flimsy in his hand.

She continued a little louder. "Most commanders wouldn't have thought to tow the probe in for investigation. Most flights wouldn't have picked up the signal in the first place, never mind avoiding a collision in an electromagnetic cloud in a gravity well. Those are some tough variables for a young flight to handle."

Han didn't react, his face set in the same grim look, but he tossed the flimsy into Chewie's seat and caressed her hip with a lazy sweep of his fingers.

"This is the part where you accept the nice words," she nudged after a beat.

He shrugged and tugged her in his direction. "Why are you all the way over here? Don't you have an evacuation to plan?" he asked.

"The meeting's in an hour."

"Okay, fine," he said. "Then why are you all the way over _there?"_

Leia smiled, eyed the distance between them, all one meter of space. "I'm giving you room to brood."

"Brood?"

"Reflect," she said. "Be angry and petulant. _Brood._"

He tried to hide his grin but she saw the quick twist in his lips, the first indication of amusement she'd seen from him. "I don't _brood_."

She hummed and pushed off the console, stepping closer to him so that she could brush a hand through his hair. She had to smile, couldn't hold it back: she'd spent a great deal of time the past few years wanting to run her fingers through his infuriatingly attractive head of hair. It was still a novelty to have permission to do it at will.

"Looks an awful lot like brooding to me. What's bothering you?"

Han pulled her to sit crossways on his lap, wrapping his arms around her torso in a loose embrace. She leaned into the warmth of his arms and chest, tilting her head to look at him expectantly, all the while relishing his warmth, the strength with which he held her.

"Diagnostics just came back when you showed up," he said, waving a hand at the flimsy he'd discarded. "It's an older model but it's definitely Imperial."

Leia's heart sank. "Has it been deactivated?"

"They don't know. Lights have been out for a while, though."

Leia pursed her lips. "So it's not part of Vader's search party. That's good news."

Great news, actually. Han and Leia had been tracking the Imperial bounty lists since their skirmish with Vader on Nar Shaddaa, watching for the inevitable skyrocket of her reward sum as it shot past anyone else's with the exception of Luke Skywalker's. High Command had politely asked Leia why that might be, why her bounty was now as high as the only known Force-sensitive member of the Alliance. She had dismissed their concerns with practiced nonchalance. She was an icon, after all, and she'd managed to escape Vader's clutches not once but twice. The Dark Lord of the Sith had an image to maintain and she was a particularly barbed thorn in his side.

Only Han, Leia, Chewie and Salla knew the real reason why Vader now wanted her so badly, why Luke and she were both valued at an astronomical level. Two Force-sensitive humans in the Alliance ranks? _Of course _their bounties would be similar. They were just lucky the Empire hadn't put the news out themselves.

Leia was not ready to disclose that information. She didn't want that mantle. She wanted to lead the Alliance to victory with Han at her side, wanted to help him settle his debt to Jabba the Hutt and celebrate his military victories without the added weight of _Jedi _locked around her ankles. She'd seen what it had done to Luke, the deep-rooted suspicion some had of him, the way others sometimes treated him like Alliance military protocol wasn't enough of a check on his power. The Emperor had been successful in his extermination campaign, of course, but he might have been even more successful in his campaign to sow distrust of the Jedi in the minds of the general public.

And she was already a gray figure, controversial, best used as a symbol of the Alderaanian genocide, the poor little princess who got vengeance on the Emperor by being bloodthirsty and ruthless when she needed to be. An angel of death, some believed: above any emotion but righteous anger. It was part of the reason she'd been able to avoid questions about her relationship with Han; it wasn't like they had been particularly good at hiding it.

If the probe Han had found wasn't connected directly to Vader's search for Luke and herself, she could put off the inevitable questions for another time. This wasn't her typical mindset—Leia was nothing if not forward and blunt—but the enormity of the prospect eclipsed her logic. It drove Han insane, she knew, and it would hurt Luke when she told him. But she just… Couldn't. The entire idea made her want to run.

"I'm going to vote against evacuation," she said, picking at the sleeve of Han's shirt. "I don't know where we would go if we left here. Echo Base isn't ready yet."

Han didn't respond, staring out the cockpit to the docking bay beyond.

"What are you thinking?" she prompted.

His eyes met hers and she could see worry in them as he ran a hand up and down her thigh. "Something doesn't feel right," he admitted. "Can't put my finger on it."

"You think the probe is still functional."

"Dunno. But if it is, we're in trouble."

Leia watched him, the grim set of his lips, the way his eyes looked far away, the tension in his hands as he ran soothing palms over her legs and her sides.

"You said Diagnostics thinks the probe is old."

"No, they said the power pack had been drained. It was always stupid for Imperial probes to have their lights on. They might have just learned to keep 'em off, save themselves some energy. The thing could be totally functional, could have already sent a beam transmission on us."

His eyes settled on the console, a hand on his mouth as he sat lost in thought. It was funny watching Han be so careful, so cautious with the safety of _Home One, _when he was downright suicidal in flight. He had happily taken the probe to the Alliance flagship. He had been praised for his resourcefulness. Rieekan himself had clapped him on the back and told him he'd made the right decision. And yet here he sat, deep in thought, worrying. It was no wonder High Command didn't quite understand him; sometimes she didn't, either. He should be preening, glowing, arrogant as only he could be.

"It's not like you to second-guess yourself," she murmured.

A flash of green and he was staring at her with all the focus of his considerable brainpower. She leaned back and narrowed her eyes, feeling his hands clasp together to support her lower back.

"I just brought an Imperial probe onto the fucking flagship, Leia," he bit out. "You don't think that's worth second-guessing myself?"

She opened her mouth, closed it, tried again. "I would have done the same thing," she said. "The only way to proceed was to bring it to Diagnostics."

"And Diagnostics can't tell if it's active or not."

"Diagnostics ran the first survey tests on it. We'll know more in an hour or two."

"I should've destroyed it," he said.

Leia rolled her eyes. "You're overreacting."

Han lifted his eyebrows at her. "The Imps could be on our doorstep in a few hours if that thing is active."

"There's no way—"

"_Him,_ Leia. He could be here soon."

Quiet: harsh and brittle. Leia felt like he had punched her, emotionally ruthless and heavy. Her nightmare came back to her in searing detail: the city in the clouds, the fall, the cold, deep, unrecognizable voice. _I'm coming, _it had said, and the echo of her nauseous wake-up came to her in startling detail.

"You mean Vader," she breathed.

He didn't reply but Leia knew she was right. The stiff line of Han's shoulders, the way his hands grasped and then released the fabric of her shirt only to repeat the gesture. Han was genuinely terrified. It made her feel like her ribcage had shrunk, that both her lungs and heart were too big for her torso.

She tried logic first; to counter his emotional vulnerability.

"Why would he come personally?" she asked. "_If _the probe is active, they wouldn't send the _Executor. _They would send a … a smaller scout team."

The nearest moff's scoutship, maybe a cruiser. It would take time to assemble any sort of Imperial ambush and, honestly, Vader himself _had_ to be elsewhere in the galaxy. The last they'd heard of him, he'd been to Mustafar and then to Selagiss. All one would have to do to find him was to follow his destructive path; he was not subtle. And, too, she seriously doubted Vader would drop all his other evil plans to check out an old probe in a wide swath of nothing near the Outer Reaches.

"You don't think Vader is out there, right now, looking for you?" he asked, breathless and almost angry. "You don't think he's using everything he's got to find you? _To_ _kill you?_"

His words struck a nerve and she suddenly felt cold. Cold on the skin of her arms and cold spreading down her back.

"Be serious," she said with the last of her composure. "Vader isn't the vrelt in the shadows. When he comes, it won't be because of an old probe. It will be because of something else."

Han laughed: dark, low and grim. "Right. _When_ he comes_._"

It took her a second to realize what she'd said—_when _and not _if—_and then the dam broke. She couldn't stem the flow of her own terror; it rocketed through her veins, from her head to her toes and back again. Her _skin _felt too small for her organs. The _Falcon_'s cockpit was suddenly far too confined for both of them. Trapped, like an animal: pure instincts powered up and ready to go.

She pursed her lips and fought for control over herself with a wave of her hand. "_If _he comes."

"Not what you said, Sweetheart," he said.

"It's what I _meant _to say_,_" she hedged, knowing she was caught. "I'm no more important than—"

"You are to me."

Leia stopped, hung on a breath, watching Han's eyes as they shifted away from hers and toward the canopy of the cockpit. A silent moment between them, intimate and vulnerable, and it tore her to shreds, the way his voice cracked and his eyes closed and his whole mercenary persona dropped to the deckplates of his beloved ship. With one short sentence, he became a man desperate to save the woman he loved.

"He's gonna find you, Leia," Han said into the quiet. "You and Luke. And if you argue about evacuating, High Command is going to listen to you and he'll be here in hours. I can feel it."

Leia's heart clenched at the pain in Han's voice, at the rabid fear she could hear beneath his certainty. She felt his simmering panic at the way the need for her safety clawed at the sinew in his chest, the powerlessness in his hands as he held her on his lap.

Her fear for her own safety slid away and instead she focused on Han, on his worries and fears, on making him feel better. She wanted so badly to help him; she respected Han's devotion but couldn't bear to believe he was right. Vader was far, far away. They were safe here.

And besides, evacuating now would waste more resources than they could afford. Hoth was not ready for them; the base was not yet fully functional. It was unsafe. And the refueling costs of moving a Mon Cal cruiser across the galaxy alone was worth serious debate. It wasn't like there were any real assurances Hoth was any safer than the gravity well nest they sat in now.

And to base it all on Han's feelings of unease? That made no sense, either. He had done well today. He'd provided good intelligence to Diagnostics. He'd done his job and proven his mettle as a commander. She didn't want his fear for her safety to overshadow the brilliance of his work.

_Focus on him, _she urged herself. _Focus on the good you have in your arms._

"You don't know that," she whispered. She lifted a hand to rest against his cheek, brought his eyes back to hers. "Han, you can't possibly know that."

"Maybe I do," he said, endlessly stubborn, though his eyes were softer on hers.

"_Maybe_ you can't accept that you did a good job today. Maybe you can't take a good thing and let it stay good."

He rolled his eyes. "No—"

"I'm being serious, Commander," she said, testing the teasing waters. "Accept the compliment and stop trying to do my job for me. I can take care of myself."

"You're terrible at taking care of yourself."

"Not terrible—_okay, fine_," she admitted at his pointed expression. "But I'm getting better at taking care of _you_."

He set his lips into a tight, grim line, uncertainty in every movement. She wondered where his worry came from, what dark root lived in his chest that made him fear for her safety with such overpowering intensity. A vestige of a past heartbreak, perhaps? A pale sliver of insecurity in his own worth? She didn't know and she hated it at the same time.

She felt a deep, instinctive desire to erase that doubt from him, to will it away through sheer might. She tugged him closer, stretched her neck to sweep her lips to the scar on his chin, then pressed small kisses under the line of his jaw. She tucked her smile into his skin, worked her way back to his mouth, brushing his lips with hers.

She wanted to take the grim lines away from him. She wanted to take that dark root and annihilate it, whatever its material and consistency. He deserved to feel pride in himself, in his intelligence and skill and in the way he cared so deeply about the people he allowed into his very small circle of entrusted confidantes.

He held his lips, unmoving for a moment, and Leia thought he might pull away from her. But just as the thought hit her, it faded with the softening of his lips, the tightening of his fingers at her lower back. He seemed to breathe her in, pulled her closer to himself as if he needed her in order to breathe. Her tongue brushed against his lower lip and he opened for her with a low sound from the back of his throat.

"I know what you're doing," he murmured against her lips.

She twisted in his arms, threaded her right leg over his left until she straddled him. Uncomfortable, yes, but she wanted him swallowed in her arms for all his worry over her safety. She was only partially manipulating him; most of her desire came from a need to express how much she loved him for his constant, unending worry for her life and safety.

And though she would never admit it, she'd often wondered how a cockpit rendezvous with Han might be.

"Let me," she said and kissed him again, harder, her hands holding his head to hers as if she held the galaxy.

He grunted, shifted, leaned into her kiss without a real word of protest. She broke away from his lips, swept her nose under his chin, nudged his head back as she pressed her lips against his throat. His fingers slipped beneath her shirt, ran over the skin of her back in hypnotic circles, warm to her cold, electric.

"When did you say you had to go?" he asked, eyes on the cockpit hull above him.

She nipped at his ear, pressed against the cradle of his hips—closer, closer—and dropped the tone of her voice to her lowest register. "An hour, if I'm late."

His fingers snuck to the slightly-tattered fringes of her brassiere, slipped beneath, touched skin. "Let's make you late."

With a quick tightening of muscle Han stood and carried her from the cockpit, careful not to hit her head on the hatch frame. Leia let herself be caught up in Han, in his absolute fervent desire for her, in his adoration and need, as they retreated to their safe haven of the captain's cabin.

_Take it away from me, _she urged him as they moved, as they poured energy into achieving a mindless satisfaction. _And let me take it away from you, too._

He couldn't hear her thoughts, of course, and she wasn't sure she would want him to hear her if he could. Oh, she never wanted him to know the worst of her. She loved him, everything about him, and she knew he loved her, too, but the idea of him hearing how much she needed him to center herself, the depth, the heights to which she would go to keep him safe—

Leia wrapped her arms around his torso, held him tight as he entered her, as he watched her with adoring eyes and pressed quick, passionate kisses against her lips. He was precious to her, the enormous heart that beat under his devil-may-care grin, and it was in these moments that she was so enthralled with him she felt she might shatter.

She breathed him in, felt the rising tide of heat that consumed her. Han was an intuitive lover but where he really shined was in the effort he put into gauging her reactions. He listened to her sighs and watched for signs of pleasure or discomfort, altering his course as if he were flying the _Falcon _into new, exciting territory.

"Sweetheart," he breathed into her hair and she imagined she could taste the sound of his voice through his skin, the veneration and the hope he saved just for her.

"Han," she agreed and fell, overcome with the breadth of her love for him, of his for her, of the desperate need to remain centered and whole.

* * *

Wes Janson worked on his X-wing like a man possessed, tired from his shift as Dodonna's little bitch. He'd roamed the halls all day, doing his damnedest to seem fine, nonchalant. He knew better than anyone that punishments like this one only really mattered if he showed any sort of reaction other than bright, sunny, Skywalker-esque charm.

But god_damn, _that shit was hard to maintain!

Janson wasn't a bright, sunny, Skywalker-esque kind of person. Not really. He was charming, sure, and he tended to be an optimist. That was the whole reason he was here, fighting a war no one except him and maybe the princess thought they could win. And that was fine by him. He could look at their chances of survival and find the humor there_. _But he wasn't naturally that way. It was a product of a coping mechanism he'd only really started to understand after enlisting with the Alliance. The inside of his brain was probably a hell of a lot darker than his friends thought it was.

Ah, well. They needed a clown? He'd give them a clown. He could play that part, had been doing it his whole life for his friends and family. It was fine.

And so was stalking the halls per Dodder's orders. It hadn't been all that bad. Just _boring. _And particularly so because he'd heard the Mercs had had some action today, something the Rogues hadn't managed in a month. A month!

And where had he been? Trudging up and down the officers' hall.

He'd had some fun, sure. Solo had been wandering the hall, too; he'd caught him red-handed. Said some bullshit about an early-morning meeting, and that _could _have been true except for the way Solo had stammered and looked so guilty that Janson had been instantly suspicious. Problem was, he hadn't seen where Solo had come from; he could have been leaving anyone's quarters. Rumor had it Solo knew the wing well: couple of fun people bunked down that particular corridor. There was also a certain princess sleeping somewhere nearby…

Janson had his suspicions, but no concrete proof. Yet.

He sighed and tossed his hydrospanner to the deck. Wiping his hands on his oil-rag, he tried to find a comfortable sitting position on the nose of his fighter without falling and breaking his neck. The docking bay was the largest on _Home One, _enormous and spacious but for the insane amount of cobbled-together spacecraft currently docked there. The Rogues had been assigned the corners of the bay for quick take-off; they were indisputably the Alliance's premier squadron and were the ones logging more hours in vacuum than anyone else. Janson spotted the A-wings in the center and the Yellow Squadron B-wings in a smaller circle. The Mercs weren't docked here; they were reassigned to the portside docking bay after a series of rough clashes between them and the Rogues.

Janson hadn't been involved in those. He preferred jokes and sabacc to punching. Not his style.

The _Falcon _was docked here, though, which Janson always thought was strange. Most commanders' ships docked with their squadron, but Solo had a habit of doing whatever the hell it was he wanted and Janson just assumed he'd bullied his way to be closer to Luke's typical hangout.

And all kidding aside, Janson himself didn't much mind Solo doing whatever he wanted. He was good folk, made of strong stuff and he was a hell of a pilot. Janson hadn't been part of the Alliance at the battle of Yavin: had found guts enough to join shortly after Solo and Skywalker had destroyed the Death Star. You kind of had to respect anyone who'd been there. From the outside, it had sounded pretty damn exciting and the people involved got a little bit of a pass from him.

He shook his head and lifted his eyes to the _Falcon, _thinking about Han Solo and, by extension, Leia Organa.

He'd put his credits in the _fuck _category, a little less romantic than Luke's _love _bet, but then again the boss was pretty damn romantic himself. It wasn't _just _that Janson had wanted to win the betting pool, though he wasn't going to say no to a couple thousand credits if he happened to win. He also had a soft spot for the two of them. His respect for Solo's flying notwithstanding, the princess was as close to a living, breathing hero as he'd ever seen. And she worked herself to death, meetings at every hour, training sims and combat drills. She was as true a believer as anyone else and seemed totally prepared to die just like the rest of them. He liked that.

And he liked the idea of two people like that, two people on opposite sides of the social spectrum, getting a little happiness out of the war. That was a nice thought. Like maybe a new era for the galaxy was actually on the way.

_Goddamn_, Janson though. _Maybe I _am _a little Skywalker-esque. _

A flash of movement in the _Falcon_'s cockpit, a twist, a shift, someone standing up with something in their arms. Janson peered closer, leaned in, scrambled over to his X-wing's canopy to try to see clearer, but by then the movement had stopped and the cockpit was empty.

But _something. _

Wes Janson smiled, his gift for troublemaking itching at his fingers. His grin felt manic, desperate: his lips twisted into a teeth-showing, lupine folly of a grin, ecstatic. His chest soared, his heart thumped in his chest and he forgot about Dodonna's asinine punishments and the fact they were all about to die in the cold of space.

That _might _have been Solo and the princess. It'd been quick and it'd been far away but his pilot's eyes hadn't failed him yet.

Janson scurried down his ladder. He had so much work to do and not a bit of it had anything to do with defeating the Empire.

* * *

_Author's note: Thank you for reading! Chapter 4 will be posted on Wednesday, January 1st. Have a wonderful holiday season if you celebrate and a wonderful month if you don't! _

_This chapter is dedicated to the incredible _Cicatrick, _whose birthday we celebrated recently and who deserves all the kindness and love in the world. Happy Birthday, my dear friend. I hope you had a lovely day and am so grateful for your friendship and also how goddamned talented you are. Fuck yeah, Cic!_


	4. Jumping at Ghosts

_Jumping at Ghosts_

* * *

Leia's steps were loud in the corridor—_pounding_—as she flew at top speed to the starboard briefing theater. Late. Very late.

Because Han had made her so.

Her hair was frazzled—wisps curling at the nape of her neck and around her ears—but it always seemed to be that way at this hour of her shift, anyway. Patting her shirt with her free hand she made sure she was wearing it properly. Had she thrown her left boot on her right foot? She wasn't entirely sure. There hadn't been any time to reapply her makeup, either. She knew her lips were bare—absent of their usual red—but her lip color had rolled into some mystery nook on the _Falcon _and it wasn't like she could just stop anywhere on a warship and pick up another.

She felt undignified and graceless, like every being she passed was looking through her generally acceptable appearance and into her secret life as… _What had Han called her? _Some stupid Corellian slang.

_My main squeeze._

She rolled her eyes as she skidded to a quick stop, taking a moment to steady her breathing into its normal rhythm. Corellian was a ridiculous language. What did it mean to be someone's main squeeze, anyway? Was it laced with vulgarity, a slipping, dripping way of referencing sex and physical gratification without any emotional connection? But no, that wasn't how Han had said it, loaded with colloquialism and affection. It was probably more like the Alderaanian phrase _alhora mynasse, _translated roughly into Basic as _my heart outside the chest._

Leia had not translated it to Han yet, though she'd whispered it into his throat and chest on more than one occasion. She knew what his reaction would be. Her lips turning up into a soft smile, she imagined his amused expression: his wiley grin, the light in his eyes as he teased her. _Heart outside your chest, huh? Sounds serious, Worship. Should I take you to Medical? _

But enough of that. Squaring her shoulders, she squeezed the datapad in her hand and entered the theater. Cold air hit her as the hatch hissed open, biting into the tips of her ears and the pads of her fingers. The room was dark, one panel of fluorescent lights operating over an ancient plastisteel conference table. And, yes, that's what it reminded her of: an operating theater. A table at the center surrounded by wizened beings under enormous pressure, making life and death decisions with the fortitude of ego-stroked old men.

"Sorry I'm late," she apologized as she hurried to her seat. "A situation required my attention."

_You taste like sweetcake, _she heard. A memory. _Like honey._

She pursed her lips, banishing the dark delight of Han's voice in full sexual thrall, the aforementioned situation she had had to handle. _Hush, you, _she thought to the Han in her head. _And behave for once._

"Princess," Carlist said, nodding his respect. "We were just analyzing the updated specs on the probe from Diagnostics."

She cleared her throat, placed her datapad on the table in front of her. "And?"

"Inconclusive," Jan Dodonna said as he sat back in his chair. "The transponder seems broken but the antennae was active as recently as last standard month."

She scanned the lines of technobabble on her datapad that she was only half-able to comprehend. "A month?"

"A critical intel package was dispatched thirty days ago," Dodonna replied.

Carlist shook his head. "That still doesn't mean it is an Imperial probe. We only have 90% confirmation on that."

"Whose else could it be?" Admiral Gilad Ackbar asked.

"Smugglers," Leia answered him easily. "Pirates. Any number of unallied systems with a militia or defense force. Objects get tossed around in these gravity wells, we know that."

"And if it _is _an Imperial probe, there is no guarantee that the intel package was received," Carlist added. "I think some of us are jumping at ghosts."

Leia was inclined to agree. Dodonna and Ackbar were conservative, strategic commanders, and they tended to be more settled in their decisions. But everyone here—everyone currently stationed on _Home One_, in fact—was flitting around their business on a razor-edge. Between food rationing and the setbacks in establishing Echo Base, their lines were pulled taut and High Command was no exception.

They needed clarity. They needed logic. Thank goddess Carlist was of the same mind.

"The question is whether or not we are willing to risk the vast majority of our forces on what amounts to a hunch," a deep female voice said. "It seems… _odd_ we only found the probe this morning."

Leia's heart seized to hear the heaviness behind the steady tone. She doubted anyone else could discern it but she had spent too much time with the woman behind the receiver to miss the heavy anxiety in her words. Hours in dark offices, hammering out senatorial resolutions against the staunchest of Imperial blockades, the moral ambiguity of politics. And then other conversations _not _in the easily-bugged Coruscanti offices, in which spycraft was discussed, the future of the galaxy in the hands of renegades and rebels. The intelligence that needed to be stolen and sent to clustered caves of anarchists throughout the galaxy. How a nineteen year old senator could change the galaxy for the better.

Turning her head, Leia saw for the first time a holocube sitting in front of Dodonna. "Good evening, Councilor," she greeted.

Mon Mothma's voice held as much warmth as it did chill, a perfectly even temperature. Light-years away, out of danger, hidden in one of Bail Organa's many rebel safehouses, the leader of the Alliance sat and listened to strategy meetings that did not directly affect her safety at all. Leia imagined her in white robes, unsullied by the oil-stained gears of war, metering out her opinions freely and without the weight of her own survival on her shoulders.

Leia frowned at that thought, blanched at the blunt cynicism of it, thinking it sounded so much like Han that she fought the brief instinct to turn and see if he was standing behind her. _Unhelpful, _she reprimanded herself. _The Alliance needs a leader and she needs to be safe to continue the fight if we fail here._

"Your Highness," Mon Mothma replied. "I hope the situation you were managing wasn't dire?"

_I'm going to be late, Han, _her own voice whispered. _You are going to make me_—

"Nothing I couldn't handle," Leia responded, cool and calm, betraying nothing. "Do we know where the intel package was sent?"

Dodonna clasped his hands on top of the table, vying for the authoritative air in the room. It was a clear indication that he felt torn between reasonable steadiness and overreaction. "No. It was sent at sublight speed."

She pursed her lips. "Sublight? From a probe hidden in an electromagnetic cloud that we barely navigated?"

Carlist shot her a tight look but she ignored him and continued.

"You're assuming a great deal. The package probably never left the system."

Dodonna squared his shoulders. "What if someone was nearby to receive it?"

"We have never seen a single Imperial scout in this sector," Leia contended. "Who would be nearby?"

"We have no trajectory for the transmission, either," Carlist said. "No way of knowing that it wasn't being blasted to the universe at random. The odds of the Empire receiving it are astronomical."

The gravity wells surrounding Zone 332 were regularly scouted; no Imperial ships had been found on any of their scopes within the past two months. In point of fact, no Imperial ships had _ever _been found in Zone 332, a good enough argument against evacuation. She supposed there was a slim possibility that an Imperial scout could also be in the vicinity, one who had dodged their scanners… Except that Imperial scout-ships had fewer critical life-support systems than an X-wing did, which was why High Command had to pull their scouting runs short for that very reason. There was no way any Imperial ship could have sustained itself long enough in hiding, only to hear a transmission from what _might _be a random probe droid leftover from the Clone Wars.

She supposed an Imperial probe could _just happen _to come across the Alliance fleet as they awaited their base in the Anoat system, but that was a near mathematical impossibility. The galaxy was hundreds of thousands of lightyears across and the Empire would have needed to send out thousands of probes, wandering aimlessly through empty space, looking for the Alliance.

And, too, the data package sent at sublight speed wouldn't reach the nearest star system for another year, possibly longer. The coalition of forces currently hiding in the nebulae would be long gone by then; Echo Base was three weeks away from being declared fully operational and _Home One, _along with her small fleet of Alliance-allied ships, would have been evacuated by the time any intel package could be received.

"Then we agree," she said. "No need to evacuate."

A muffled hush descended over the theater—light but so tense she thought the air might break—and Leia realized she was missing something important.

"We are defenseless out here," Ackbar broke the silence. "Evacuation might be our best recourse."

"If someone receives the data package and catches us unawares, we might sustain significant damage," Dodonna added.

Leia frowned. "Significant damage from what?"

"The gravity wells," Dodonna said. "New data seems to indicate they are not as stable as we originally thought."

"We are caught in an opposition zone," Ackbar explained. "The gravitational pull of one well is stabilized by the others. But if the Empire finds us—if more ships enter the zone—we can't predict how the wells will react. They might shift."

"So an evacuation might be impossible in that situation?" Mon Mothma asked.

"_Might_ be," Carlist said. "We truly don't know. All of the data is theoretical at this point."

Leia shared a look with him and knew that he had a similar sense of desperate optimism when it came to critical decision-making. The Alderaanian heritage seemed to be one of carefully deducing the horrors of reality and at the same moment pulling oneself back from the edge by one hopeful, desperate fling for galactic mercy. Nothing compared to planetary genocide, after all; _nothing _could ever be as bad as their current, lonely path. Han had the correct word for it—_nihilism. _Leia had been equally shocked that he knew the word. _Caridian life lessons,_ he'd claimed, _cadets learn 'em fast_. Nihilism. An emptiness where their self-preservation should be.

"Let me get this straight," Leia said, arching an eyebrow around the table. "You want to evacuate because we found a probe that might or might not be working and might or might not be of Imperial manufacture, because it sent a data package to an unknown destination at sublight speed _a month ago_?"

"Yes, but—"

She interrupted Dodonna with a fierce look. "Where precisely would you evacuate _to?_"

Ackbar shifted to look at her. "Lieutenant Zend has told us of her contact on Nar Shaddaa. We might be able to—"

"We are not bringing Prisht into this," Leia said between gritted teeth. "The Distributary is not a hostel for lost rebels."

The table quietened, hushed by her command, and Leia felt a tick of satisfaction that her opinion still seemed to matter in this small body of military and political leaders.

"Echo Base has not been given the green light, has it?" Mon Mothma asked into the charged quiet.

Carlist shrugged. "It is technically built but we've had some unexpected complications with the cold."

"What complications?"

"Well, the cold itself," he offered, voice dry as a midday toast on Tatooine. "That's pretty much the sum of it. Tech is not adapting well and speeders haven't been successful even in the daylight hours, much less at night. There is a real question about perimeter defenses, as well: if the shield generator can sustain the amount of power it would need to be fully functional."

Dodonna leaned in, jutting a finger into the seam of the plastisteel in front of him. "Our advance team is self-sustaining, Carlist. They report significantly fewer losses than during the initial weeks."

The Han-voice in her head offered his own opinion on that comment: _I ain't going to Base Ice-Ball Hell until there're _no _fucking losses. _

"That is a thirty-person team," Carlist pointed out. "Very different from the entire crew of _Home One _and her current contractors."

"We can easily lose the contractors," Dodonna said, lofty and unworried.

Leia felt a flicker of anger but pushed it down deep, biting her tongue. No need to start another fight on the subject of the unlisted—and yet utterly invaluable—personnel. At the very least, the two contractors she most worried about had officially joined.

"Malignant hypothermia is a real concern, as are the reports of a larger predatory species living in the caverns—"

"I propose we wait to evacuate until we know more," Leia interrupted, steering the conversation back on course. "Echo Base is not ready and the threat of Imperial attack is significantly less than we originally thought."

"Seconded," Carlist said. "Let's see if we can find a trajectory for the transmission before we leap to Hoth."

Ackbar rustled a stack of flimsies to his left. "I disagree. Adamantly."

Dodonna nodded his agreement with the Mon Calamari. All heads turned to the holocube, awaiting a final vote from a leader hidden somewhere where blaster bolts and ion cannons were a vaporous myth.

"Leia? Carlist? You truly believe the base is not ready?"

Leia sighed, feeling the first hints of Mon Mothma's capitulation. "We wouldn't freeze: the heaters from Nar Shaddaa are effectively keeping the advance team alive while they work, but the resources are simply not there yet. We would spend a fortune in contractor fees to sustain a base three weeks premature to complete self-sufficiency and we simply do not have those resources. The food ration is proof enough of that."

Mon Mothma seemed to weigh her words. Leia imagined her looking closely at an old scale, two plates connected by a chain, watching the hypnotizing dance of options and their costs. Life or death. Survival or annihilation.

Then, with a crackle, the voice. "Stay. Gather more information and study the gravity wells. But stay."

Leia caught Carlist's eye, nodded and stood up as the holocube deactivated and the meeting was dismissed. The briefing theater cleared quickly and within moments the two Alderaanians were alone. She leaned against her chair and held her datapad to her chest.

"Thank you for the back-up," she said to him. "I don't know why they insist on reactive commands."

"They're worried," Carlist said.

"We're all worried. That is no excuse to make impulsive decisions."

Carlist smiled a weary, ancient smile, and Leia was reminded that everyone was reeling from the losses of war, that a shroud hung over them all. Brutal and cold, the rebellion they fought was strapped for resources and suffocating under the weight of Imperial might. Could she truly blame Dodonna and Ackbar for feeling unsettled and vulnerable? She herself had risked an enormous amount to retrieve the heaters for the base on Hoth because she knew the Alliance could not sustain itself in the wilds of space forever. Perhaps _impulsive decisions _was too harsh a judgment.

"Princess, may I ask you a question?"

Carlist's voice was quiet, tempered, and she wondered why he needed to preface that question when it was just the two of them. They weren't in the habit of standing on ceremony any longer—the drums of war had beat them enough not to worry overmuch about social class or politeness—and aside from maintaining the habitual _Your Highness, _Carlist rarely bothered with niceties any longer. This wasn't the Winter Palace, after all, and he wasn't her father's chief tactician.

"Of course. Ask away," she replied, and sat back down in her chair.

He seemed to struggle with himself, with the question or maybe how to ask it, and Leia's stomach broke into nervous flutters.

"I did not include any intel about the electromagnetic interference in my initial briefing. I only heard about it myself after a full interview with Commander Solo," he said. "A full interview that happened _after _I initially debriefed High Command."

She blinked, swallowed. "Really?" she asked in a neutral tone.

"How did you get that intel?"

"You know how information spreads on this ship, Carlist," she said. She made an empty gesture with her hand, wispy, thoughtless, all while her brain shouted insults at her carelessness. "Half the crew knows more about our battle plans than we do."

Stalling. She was stalling and they both knew it. Carlist didn't set conversational traps: he was one of the most honest men she'd ever met, if not as rough with the truth as Han or as lilting and virtuous as Luke. Carlist lived somewhere in the middle, in a useful and mindful gray that engendered trust and respect. The kind of man who tempered his natural curtness with kindness and his intractable boldness with consideration. He could and would strike with a sword—and when he did, it would kill—but only after he'd decided it was necessary.

"I didn't ask about the Alliance gossip network," he said. "But if there is an intelligence leak in Green Squadron, I need Commander Solo to fix it immediately. And if there isn't a leak..."

He left the sentence unfinished and Leia scrambled, heart thumping wildly in her chest. _Han _had told her about the electromagnetic cloud and he'd told her when she'd snuck off to speak with him between High Command's two briefings on the subject. While others had gone to eat or hassle Diagnostics or draw up evacuation plans, she'd run to talk with Han, to tell him how proud she was of him, to…

"Your Highness," Carlist said, then reached a hand to her shoulder, grasping it with the warmth of a father. "_Leia. _I'm not prying. This is about military intelligence, nothing else."

"Are you sure?"

She regretted her tone immediately. Too sharp, too defensive, downright incriminating.

Carlist grimaced, kind eyes crinkling at the edges. "Yes. Unless there is something else I need to know?"

She tried to rein in the flood of anger and fear that spread through her system. Like a blanket of molten rock, it moved in slow, even progressions outward from her chest where her need to protect Han nestled. She offered logic as a gift to the fear: it was not against the Alliance code of conduct for a member of High Command to fraternize with a member of the commissioned ranks as long as the officer did not directly report to them. And it wasn't an intelligence leak, either. Her rank superseded Han's and she had a right to that knowledge. The only reason Carlist hadn't already disclosed the information to her in the first meeting was because Han himself hadn't yet reported it.

She saw a flurry of images then, a risque and damning constellation of skin and hair and lips and the fire of sex when it was loving and passionate and trusting. When she could escape the weight of the galaxy with someone who made her feel whole without the mantle of responsibility. How necessary it had seemed to visit Han in that moment, the draw to make sure he was safe and unrattled, unflappably the man she loved. Even as she saw the footage, even as she heard that the _Millennium Falcon _had arrived back to the docking bay without damage, even as she'd found him on that ramp, bullish and stubborn and victorious.

Leia licked her lips. She could deny Carlist's vague insinuations, could say she'd run into Salla or Chewie and they'd mentioned the electromagnetic cloud in passing. She could even say she'd run into Han himself and he'd told her; it was well-known around _Home One _that they were at the very least friends. Or perhaps Han had told Luke and Luke had told her—?

"Commander Solo told me," she said, lifting her chin and making a bold decision. "When I went to see him between briefings."

"Is that so?"

"Carlist," she began, a ready emphatic diatribe on her lips about her privacy and her own right to allocate her time and attention wherever she deemed it necessary, but stopped at the look on his face, the stubborn glint in his eyes, the set of his lips.

"Princess."

A stand-off between the two Alderaanians, cold air hissing and harsh overhead lights casting their faces into shadow. Leia kept her face unreadable but once again caught the glimmer of bemusement on Carlist's face as he tried to do the same.

She narrowed her eyes. "_You_ _know."_

He pursed his lips, shook his head. "I don't know anything," he said. "I _suspect."_

"Based on what?"

"A few things," he said. "Some clues Solo's left. You, too."

Leia eyed him carefully, judging how much he knew and how much he was fishing for information. Carlist truly wasn't interrogative by nature but he _did _have a soft spot for Han. She'd seen it often since Han's commission and could even think of many situations before Nar Shaddaa when Carlist had defended her former smuggler to High Command.

But that soft spot was a glimmer in comparison to how much Carlist cared for Leia. As the last princess of his destroyed world and daughter of his good friend, she was held in higher esteem than anyone else. Of course he was watching her closely enough to catch the signs of a relationship.

"Is it possible that you are paying more attention to those few things than you should?" she asked.

After all, Carlist was a general in the Alliance. Surely he had more on his mind than the love life of his former regent and a wayward officer under his command?

"As I said, Your Highness, I don't know anything. I suspect. I might even _hope._"

Leia almost laughed, felt it bubble in her chest. "There is no way you _hope_, General."

"I'm a simple man," he answered. "I like my people happy."

She dropped her eyes, overwhelmed. She knew Carlist, had known him nearly her entire life. He was a pillar of her childhood, a staple of the House Organa. To have his blessing was the closest she would ever come to getting her father's.

"Thank you," she murmured, quiet voice in a quiet room. She reached out a hand, squeezed his elbow, smiled her thanks.

"Now, that doesn't mean Solo is above the rules, you make sure he knows that," Carlist warned, and his voice turned gruff, playful. "I'm still his commanding officer."

"Yes, sir," she said.

"If he keeps showing up late to my meetings, I'm _still _giving him KP duty. Him and his whole flight."

"I'll make sure he knows."

"Even if he did a damn good job for us today," he continued. "Even if I think certain people should _also _be proud of him."

"Certain people are very proud of him. Certain people made sure he knew how proud of him they were."

Carlist made a face but didn't reply, gathered his things and turned on his heel in what Leia suspected was a mostly playful military about-face. She grinned and, sinking into the chair, exhaled a long-held breath. The relief was different than the relief she'd felt after their dinner with Luke. Then she'd felt dread, had worried her relationship with Han would somehow spoil her relationship with Luke or Luke's relationship with Han. She had agonized that their dynamic would fall apart, jealousy or exclusion igniting tinder she hadn't known she'd laid beneath all of them. The calm acceptance she'd felt when Luke had embraced their new reality had been warming, energizing.

The relief she felt in this moment, though, was more like dropping a weight she'd been carrying on her shoulders. She felt lighter; Carlist's tacit acceptance of her relationship with Han was _a good thing, _of course it was, but it also exhausted her, the strain of carrying around that secret. She was emotionally-winded; her muscles didn't want to keep her upright.

The fight could wait outside the briefing theater for a few moments longer.

* * *

It had started as a self-congratulational celebration for the Mercs. Cheap bottles of ale had been liberated from Teso's illegal stash and the Mercs had opened their arms to any and all pilots, crew members or mechanics who wanted to join. Even—and this had surprised Luke to no end—his own squadron, who had loosened up on the ruthless initiation pranking to genuinely admire a good scouting run.

The Mercs and the Rogues had spent the past few weeks endlessly torturing each other, a rivalry he and Han had done nothing to stem. Failed sim scores had been scrawled on hatches and a ripoff version of the Rogues' emblem had been sewn into flight suits back from the _Home One _valets; nicknames took hold—sometimes cruel ones—and there had been a few tense exchanges in the mess halls. Still, outright sabotage hadn't been attempted yet. The commanders of the two flights had watched carefully for it and had drawn the line short of dangerous risk to life or limb. To be totally honest, they both thought the contention might push each flight into better runs in general, as was the usual course for fighter pilots. Ego reigned supreme. Might as well play it to their mutual advantage.

Luke wasn't naive enough to think the Rogues fully accepted the Mercs now that they'd shared a party with them. Despite all its rebellious fervor and claims of egalitarianism, the Alliance had its fair share of hierarchical bias. But the blasters seemed to have been holstered for the evening, the tricks toned down in favor of ale and whatever music it was Salla Zend was playing loudly from her main hold.

By the time Luke had discovered the festivities, it had grown massive. Not just Mercs and Rogues but Blue Squadron and quite a few off-duty crew members, too. The docking bay was now a sprawling mess of chatter and music, a veritable cesspool of sentient camaraderie; flimsy plastex card tables had been produced out of thin air and people milled between them. Luke guessed at least a hundred pilots, crew, contractors and even some command staff were hanging out in the bay's central space among the spacecraft docked on the port side of _Home One._

Luke felt good about this party. Some good news wasn't going to hurt them and the food rationing had created more resentment than usual. A night of celebration was probably good for morale and it assuaged his lingering guilt over the Rogues' treatment of the Mercs.

He scanned the bay again, eyes finding Salla leaning against the starboard hull of her ship as she watched her squadron-mates set up an impromptu sabacc tournament. She held a bottle to her lips—not one of Teso's and Luke wondered if she had her own illegal stock—and appraised the scene with narrow, almost-parental distrust. Her long, lithe body curved in her dark blue flight suit like a bow, poised to strike and release hours of tension in a velocity few could anticipate.

She caught him looking. Trying to seem friendly he lifted a hand to wave, but she continued staring at him without any reaction. Luke sighed, launched himself off his perch against a ready hull near the huge bay doors and walked straight toward her. Hands up, smile broad, eyes alight, he turned on the trademark Skywalker charm.

"Hi!" he shouted over the din. "Congratulations!"

She raised an eyebrow but didn't otherwise move.

Luke's smile didn't falter, though he had to fight to keep it in place as he joined her against the _Intruder'_s hull. "On the run, I mean. Beautifully handled."

Salla eyed him, flatly annoyed, before she looked away and crossed her arms over her chest. "Thanks, Skywalker."

Luke made a momentous effort to shake off whatever mood she was in and maintain the sunny persona he tried to project. It wasn't a _lie_—he was a true believer in the cause and he skewed optimistic at the very core of who he was—but Salla had that same gift that Han had of making Luke lose his cool. The loner act, the weird sense of pessimistic superiority, the jaded smuggler facade: all of it was straight out of Han's playbook and sometimes…

Sometimes Luke just couldn't stand it.

But he'd seen Salla grin like an idiot. He'd seen her let loose. They'd settled into a kind of contentious friendship, animosity in every exchange but mostly just for show. It was the opposite of his early interactions with Han, when the older man had been a pain in the ass in front of others but let his humanity show in quiet moments. Salla was more likely to be friendly in groups and more awkward and hostile in private. That was just who she was; affection seemed to be lined in the harsh words she sometimes spoke, the brutal honesty she used to tell people she cared about them.

A light, soft feeling enveloped him as he watched her, similar to how he'd felt when he first saw Han and Leia interact in the medbay after their mission to Nar Shaddaa. Light, but tinged in fear, the sense of danger lurking behind the blueish-silver haze of his usual Force impressions. He was getting used to this feeling: the Force whispering _vulnerability _in his ear like it was the key to understanding others. Something he'd worked out himself, not a lesson from Ben and not anything he'd ever had explained to him, his own intuition informing his Force-sensitivity. Or vise-versa. He didn't know and he didn't particularly care, either.

Simple fact: Salla was nice around other people. So this was a rare display of public mulishness. She must be feeling something different, and feeling it loud enough that the Alliance's only Jedi initiate could sense it.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. "Someone's got a holo of the maneuvering. I took a look. You guys looked good."

"Yeah."

"That big-top formation?" He whistled.

Salla nodded her head but didn't reply, the shroud of blueish-silver haze swirling around her now like a menace. Not calming in the slightest, it looked instead like it was gaining momentum. Like it was strengthening with every word he spoke.

If she thought he would leave her to her emptiness and her grimacing, she was sorely mistaken. He'd made most of his friends in his life by sheer stubborn kindness and an almost herculean sense of his own innocent charm. After all, _she _was the one currently blasting "Ragin' Bolts" from her sound system like the Hutts were about to take her ship from her. She was watching over this whole gig. Some part of her must have wanted him to break through the haze, even if she herself couldn't see it.

"What's wrong?" he asked. Simple. Kind. And direct. In Salla's language of brutal assertiveness. Brutal and therefore kind.

When she didn't answer he stuck his foot out and kicked her shin. She scowled at him or at his antics—he wasn't sure which—and said through gritted teeth, "Go away."

"I don't think so. No XO looks so glum at a party for their own success."

"This one does," she said quick and fast, like the swing of a lightsaber.

Luke made a show of scanning the bay, sweeping his hand out to encompass the whole scene. "Come _on. _You're sucking the joy out of the room."

Salla inhaled, blew out her breath like it took all of the energy she had and then sank back against the side of the _Intruder. _Luke felt more than saw the blueish-silver haze retract, pull tighter into her body, leaving him enough space to interact with her. A window and therefore one that would hurt him. Like a trap before a great treasure; if he could handle her next words, he could win her honesty.

Luke braced himself.

"You know how high the reward for your capture is?" she said, not looking at him.

Luke shrugged.

"A million. A cool million. For capture." She waited a beat and then looked at him. "Doesn't that bother you?"

"Not really," he answered. "I'm either safe or dead here. Or I'm safe until I'm dead. It doesn't really matter either way."

Salla eyed him, narrow and cold. He got the impression that there was more behind her anger, more to her question than she was offering, and it took him a moment to figure out what it was.

He blinked. "You're worried about the probe?"

And when he said it, the blueish-silver haze exploded, encompassed everything around them: the plastex card tables, the ships, the beings, the bottles of ale. It fell over everything, a wash of psychic dust, and Luke felt a chill go down his spine.

"Fuck, Skywalker. _Yes, _I'm worried about the probe," she answered, turning to him fully, bearing down on him. They were almost the same height but somehow she felt larger than life. Terrifyingly tall. "Why aren't _you _worried about it?"

He waited, tilted his head. "Because this has happened before?" he asked when she didn't continue, quirking his lips to the side. "We've found all sorts of space trash out there that we thought was Imperial and it never brought them to our doorstep."

"There's a first for everything."

"Don't be such a pessimist, Salla," Luke said. "We're safe."

"From who?" she asked. "The Empire?"

Luke tilted his head but didn't answer, sensing she needed to say it herself. There was power in speaking a forbidding name, of voicing a fear. A tense, long moment descended, almost like a duel. Waiting to see who took the first step, who yielded first.

But he knew how these battles went. He'd been involved in them before. Tranquility bested anxiety every time. In a challenge between gnashing teeth and calm certitude, calm won. Always.

"He wants you alive," she finally said.

Luke's heart stuttered in his chest, icing over with the frost in her tone. _Him. _The shadow that haunted his days and prowled through his nights. The man—no, not _man_—who had cut down Ben Kenobi without a single moment of hesitation. The _thing _who had murdered Luke's father before Luke had ever known him. The _nightmare _who had destroyed Leia's entire world, who had helped exterminate the Jedi Order, who preyed on the hopes of a galaxy that deserved better than slavery and tyranny and death.

_Him._

"He is willing to pay a million credits for you," Salla said, low and deep. "_Why?"_

Luke fought for nonchalance. "I'm a Jedi."

"And he spent two decades _killing_ Jedi, right?"

He didn't react, reached for his emotional center with the grip of a man reaching for a lifeboat.

"I grew up on Nar Shaddaa, Skywalker," she said, and her voice was hushed and her eyes were haunted. "I heard people talk. He spent millions of credits to find and kill Jedi. And he was good at it. Good enough that hardly anyone has ever met someone like you."

"And yet here I am," he said, summoning his pilot's ego. "Vader isn't perfect."

"Do you know any Jedi who survived the purge?"

"Ben Kenobi," Luke answered readily, impatience lining his tone.

"What happened to good, old Ben Kenobi?"

He shut his mouth, anger simmering at the tips of his fingers, at the set of his shoulders. Ben's heroism had been well-documented in the Alliance reports, even if his sacrifice wasn't well-known outside of the rebel ranks. Salla knew what had happened. She knew. The only reason she asked was because she wanted Luke to say it, and he refused to let his mentor exist only as a dramatic reveal.

"No? No guesses?" she taunted. "Let me help you: Vader killed him. _Vader_. And now he wants you."

Another silence, heavier. Luke's bright flame wavered, winded. Salla's aura wavered, too. He didn't like the nature of this conversation. At least she wasn't relishing her brutishness, and he clung to that, the authentic horror she felt.

What she felt she felt _honestly, _and Luke couldn't disrespect that.

Then her voice got quieter, fuller, like brimming tears that didn't dare fall. "Leia, too."

The blueish-silver haze turned red, glowing like Vader's lightsaber, and Luke wondered what that meant, what truth the Force found in Salla's words. _What do you mean, Leia too? _he wanted to ask. Was dying to ask.

He felt then like his brain had hit a block, like a fissure broke between that single, first thought and the next. One moment he was opening his mouth to ask Salla what she meant about Leia, and the next… The next the urge had dissipated into the air, thin and uninteresting.

"We're safe here," Luke said emphatically, like speaking it into the universe would make it so. "The probe was just a probe. He—_they_—are not coming here. We're safe."

_I'm coming, _he heard. A whisper at the back of his neck.

Salla's eyes narrowed. She licked her lips and her right hand twitched as if she was ready to pull her blaster from its holster and shoot him there on the spot. And then the shield snapped back into place, a more pleasant expression settling on her face, and she was again the roughly-pleasant XO of Green Squadron watching over her pilots. The din of the party rose and suddenly their conversation had structure, had a place and sound, and frivolity reigned once again.

"Sure," she said. "Safe."

She patted him on the shoulder as she left, as she ambled along the line of sabacc tables like she was inspecting them the way she inspected the ships she led.

Luke watched her zig-zag through the bay, watched the blueish-silver haze disintegrate into her form like it had never existed at all and felt a crude, unformed thought take root in his brain. _And Leia, _her voice whispered, silky and smooth, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. And Leia _what? _he thought, eyes shifting down and to the right, oblivious to the sound of the cantina music rising, the cheers as someone struck out spectacularly on one of the sabacc tables. The roar turned into a dull background symphony as he stood against the _Intruder, _listening to Salla's voice condemning Leia to his own fate over and over again.

* * *

A festering, dark universe. No starlight, no planetary body. Empty and cold, the sector bore no witnesses, told no lies. Nothing lived here, nothing died here. A spinning mess of gravitational whirlpools, a network of tethered wells pulling and pushing against each other in a suicidal, murderous wave of violence.

Vacancy. Endless nothingness. A vacuum of meaning, meaning nothing. No rise, no fall; no dark, no light. Only viciousness. Chaos.

He loved it.

Darth Vader stood on the bridge of the _Executor, _feet planted wide, assessing the dark as if it were a feast. The emptiness was scintillating; _fetching, _almost, in a way he couldn't identify. The ghost of Anakin Skywalker could—_how she'd smiled, the fathomless breadth of her political convictions_—but Vader had no such inclinations.

"They are here," he said.

His voice was like the start of a race, an ancient pistol with a real bullet shooting into the air. The bridge of the _Executor _burst into activity, their solemn vigil over their terrifying commander broken, silent but for the murmur of naval officers reporting gravitational abnormalities. A collective exhale as duty overtook the disconcerting quiet. Vader knew the crew feared his stillness more than his activity. Death was an inevitability for everyone; suffering was not always so. Suffering had dips and curves, a texture to the undercurrents of power, as vast as the void in front of him.

He had so much dark appreciation for the sheer lunacy of the Alliance's choice to station themselves here, in the brittle bottleneck of a sector with no escape. What _desperation, _to stop here. Filled with foolish, ranting proponents of anarchy and chaos, they flouted order for their own ends, like excitable children, distinguishable from each other only in how much Vader despised them. And yet, he saw beauty in their frantic attempt to hide from him here, in a place that reminded him of his own armor: dark and impenetrable. Inspiring fear.

Inside the mask, his lips tugged upwards in an old, unused smile.

_I'm coming, _he thought.

_I'm here._

"Prepare for the assault," he said and then whipped around and stalked off the bridge.

* * *

_Author's Note: Chapter 5 will be posted Saturday, February 1st, 2020. And on that note: Happy New Year! I hope your 2020 is joyful and full of beauty. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all your love and support in 2019. _

_Special thanks to my beta for this story, AmongstEmeraldClouds, who works harder on this story than I do and is the steel-spined challenger I need. Thank you for holding firm and for striking an important balance between supporter and collaborator. _Specter _is as much me as it is you. Much love and thanks!- KR_


	5. Here

_Here_

Leia lurched out of a fitful sleep as if possessed. Her meager dinner of rations and water rose in her throat and then landed on the deckplates beside the bunk. A shard of ice coursed through her body, her skin rippling into shivers. She heaved and her back bowed in great shudders, breath caught in her throat. All of this before she even knew what was happening, where she was. She couldn't breathe, she couldn't think, she couldn't—

"Leia?" she heard a voice, raspy and tired.

She retched again. Her body seized in tight waves of fear and pain, her stomach now empty. Her brain felt too large for her skull. It came from every corner, every nerve ending, every myelin sheath and every axon. It was a barrage. It was an onslaught.

She felt a sick, consuming emptiness. Destruction. Death.

"The hell—?" the voice said and then a hand on her shoulder, a warm body next to hers. Close enough to feel her tremble, feel how she gasped for breath in the cold air of her quarters.

She tried to clamp her teeth together, tried to hide the insurmountable pain but she already knew she couldn't hide it from him.

She grasped the sheets, hands locking in the itchy, cheap fabric of her blanket. "Oh, no. Oh no, no, _no_—"

She wrenched herself away from his comfort, from his hands and warmth and reassuring voice. She couldn't stand it, couldn't be comforted. He was close, too close and he was coming_. _They needed to move. They needed to leave. He was coming.

He was _here._

She flew to her bare-bones closet, tossed on a pair of Alliance crew-pants and a man's old shirt, sleep-braid flying behind her as she wrestled with her boots and jacket.

_What are you going to do? _a ringing voice said in her head. _Run to High Command and explain… what?_

That she had the instincts of a Jedi but couldn't stand the thought of becoming one? That some dark presence had been haunting her dreams for days?

No. That was reason and she had no space for it. The air around her was charged with malevolence, violent and violating. Something was wrong, utterly wrong, and there was nothing left to do but act. She tried to organize her thoughts but struggled, falling into pure terror and animal instinct.

"Get up," she said. Yelled. Screamed. Her voice too loud but who cared who heard her? This was an emergency, this was life-and-death, couldn't they feel it, too? That he was coming, that he was close? Close enough to be dangerous, close enough to kill them all—

"What are you _doing?" _the male voice asked. "Leia, come here."

_Han. _Leia identified the voice as his only after she looked at him, looked at the face of the man still lying in the bunk. And when she did, when the name resurfaced from the mire of her brain, the terror multiplied, pushed another retch into her throat as she fell to her knees and heaved. Nothing came of it, fruitless reactions to flightless, boundless fear for the one person she couldn't lose, she couldn't lose him, she couldn't. He needed to be safe. Where would he be safe? Where was safety? And how did she get him there?

Han. _Oh_, _Han._

She heard him stand, saw his bare feet as he struggled toward her, tripping and falling to his knees next to her shoulders.

"Leia." A hand in her hair, on the bowing arch of her back as she took deep, hacking breaths. "C'mon, Sweetheart, look at me."

Panting, she turned to him. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

His eyes were everywhere, his jaw tight as he brushed his hands anywhere he could reach. "I'm here. You're okay. We're okay."

She closed her eyes, too overwhelmed. They weren't anywhere near okay. She wasn't sure why he wasn't moving, why he was wasting time trying to calm her down when the pain and the fear and the hopeless, helpless dread were everywhere in the room, clogging the air filters, strangling them both. They needed to move, they needed to act_.T_he galaxy was about to crash down on them both, on all of them, unless they _moved._

"Get dressed," she bit out. "We need to go."

Han stared at her and Leia stared at him, trying to tell him without words that she needed him to listen to her. Her brain was a mess of signals, a storm of thoughts and feelings and perceptions that didn't belong there. She couldn't think and she was thinking too much and the resulting chaos was going to shatter her. All she knew was that she had to protect him, that she needed him safe, that she couldn't lose him.

"Please," she begged and in another time she would have been shocked at the plea in her voice. But not now, not while her brain was alight, on fire. "Please, Han. We need to go. _Please._"

Han opened his mouth and she knew, she _knew, _he was about to use reason against her, that he had a long, itemized list of logical datapoints about why they were safe in her quarters on _Home One. _That's where they were, right? In her quarters? It was—what was it? 0316?—and no klaxons were blaring, no official announcement of Imperial ships had burst through the sound-system. There was no foundation for her extreme panic.

Except.

"You were right," she breathed, grabbed for his shoulders as the cold of the deckplates bit into her shins. "You were right about the probe. They're here."

He frowned, the beloved crease in his forehead a fitting rebuttal. Leia summoned the last bit of command she had, the last vestige of a thinking, processing human.

"_He's here_."

Han's breath left him, the noxious atmosphere taking him over now, too. He became movement itself, tearing through the section of her closet that held his pants, clipping a comm to his belt and holstering the DL-44 against his thigh. A whirlwind of activity, that was Han always, but the clumsiness inherent in his movements now rivalled the way her brain functioned. A whirling, flaring scramble of sensation and electric pain, unendurable, summoning and fluctuating and _they had to get out of here._

"Okay," Han said and he was dressed and lifting her from the deckplates helping her with the last button of the shirt she wore—his shirt, the one that always made her feel safe—making sure her boots were latched. "Okay, Sweetheart. Where do we go?"

Leia's eyes met his, her knees shaking, her lips trembling.

"Luke," she breathed.

If she was in danger, if Han or Chewie were in danger, then surely Luke was, too. Her family, her _people, _the only people she had left and they were all in danger.

Han stared at her, held her face in his hands: eyes wide and gray and worried—so worried—that it almost stopped whatever breath she'd managed to take into her lungs. She licked her lips and grasped his collar in a tight fist, squeezing it and turning it as she watched Han comprehend what she was saying.

"Okay," he said after a moment, nodding. "Okay. Let's go get Luke."

—O—

Han didn't remember the journey to the docking bay. He didn't remember deciding to go there. Logically, he and Leia should have run to Luke's quarters since it was so late into their sleeping cycle.

But that wasn't where they went. Leia had insisted.

He didn't remember the journey, no, but he remembered how it felt to be sick with terror for the woman he loved. His stomach was a mess of knots and worry, holding her close, feeling how she trembled in his arms. Everything inside him turned black, an instinctive nothingness to swallow the fear.

Han pushed against it. He could handle it, could feel sick and worried and make the correct decisions, too. He knew he could, for Leia. And if that wasn't a terrifying feeling all on its own, he didn't know what was.

The starboard docking bay was empty but for a few ambling droids, bored mechanics and pilots looking a little worse for wear after the party the night before. The air was cool to his skin and empty to his overheated body. Their half-run, half-tripping footsteps were loud in the cavernous bay and people noticed, he could tell. He could feel their surprise to see him and Leia there, staggering together into the bay, eyes wide and panic like a cloud around them.

And Han tried—he tried so hard—to lend Leia his calm, to imbue her frantic little body with warmth and control. But this was a total reversal in their relationship. Leia never had to be controlled. She always knew because that's who she was. In his eyes, Leia Organa was omniscient and omnipotent.

He didn't like the shake in his hands and wasn't sure if it was coming from Leia or from him. He didn't like her stilted breathing. He didn't like that she clung to him like a being possessed. That she was softly keening to herself. _Pease, please, please, we need to go, we need to go_.

It terrified him. It made him sick with worry.

"Luke?" he yelled, despite the scene they were making. "Luke, you here?"

_Over here! _a familiar Wookiee growled.

Han hauled jets to the ramp of the _Falcon, _half-carrying Leia as she stumbled, shaking, breath hitching.

"Chewie," he replied as he passed the Rogues, as a few pilots poked their heads out of engine blocks, a whispered _what the hell? _blowing by his ears.

_We need Medical, _Chewie growled though Han couldn't yet see him. A few more meters, just past Luke's old, beat-up X-wing and—

"_Fuck," _Han said, almost dropping Leia as she keened louder. "What the—?"

Luke was splayed out on the ground, eyes closed and breath coming out in uneven rhythms of pain. He was half-dressed, one boot on, one glove, an unzipped flight-suit over the old moisture farmer undershirt that Han knew the kid favored. He looked pale, paler than Leia, and he was sweating.

"Luke," Leia murmured into Han's chest.

_Medical! _Chewie shouted again when he saw Han and Leia, and Han knew the Wookiee's concern was as strong as his own. _Blasted idiots, go get Medical!_

The command was for the Rogues; Han spotted Wedge Antilles in the corner of his eye and a few members of the Yellow Squadron crew. They looked hungover, sick themselves, slow to move or communicate or do anything other than stare.

"They don't need Medical, pal," Han said, coming to a stop at the _Falcon_'s ramp. "It's not physical."

_Of course it is, _Chewie growled. _Look at them!_

Han looked, noting the kid's uncharacteristic pallor, the whiteness of his lips, the stuttering of his breathing. He turned to the woman leaning on him, her unruly hair, the way her eyes never seemed to settle on any one thing.

And then she caught sight of Luke and Han _felt _the change in her. Her weight fell on him, knees buckling, her mutters getting louder.

"He's here, he's here, he's here," she whimpered and Han felt his heart sink, the pain in those words flooding his chest. "Luke—"

"Yeah, Sweetheart. It's Luke," he bent to kiss the top of her head, terrified of her monotone, her helplessness consuming him whole.

_What is going on? _Chewie demanded.

Leia loosened the arm around Han's waist, tripping over her own feet to sit by Luke's prone form, running nervous fingers over the kid's chest. Her hand rose and fell with his breathing and she seemed to relax as she sat, her eyes on Luke.

"I don't know, I _don't,_" Han confessed, his hands shaking. "She just woke up like this. I don't know what's going on."

_Is it the Force? _

"How the fuck would I know?" Han said, a little too loud. "She just kept saying she had to go, that he was here."

The Wookiee's eyes shot to Han's at lightspeed. _Who is here?_

Han shrugged, shaking his head and lowering his voice so only Chewie could hear. "Vader, I think."

Chewie looked at him, blue eyes wide and mouth gaping. In a moment of complete dissociation, Han noticed how long his copilot's fangs were, nearly twice the size of his normal teeth. _Get it together, _he urged himself.

_What do you want to do? _Chewie asked, soft and low. _Should we scramble the Mercs?_

Han considered it, trying to make his brain focus on anything but his desperate worry for Leia. It was difficult; he felt like her pain and panic were all he could think about. Like she was the star that gave him light and without her, he was only fumbling in the dark.

It was mostly the truth. He knew that. But he was also a goddamned commander. And he knew what was at stake.

His eyes ticked through the docking bay and he saw a small fleet, pilots peering curiously at him, the scattered and scrounged assemblage of the Alliance war machine. He saw the real world, the world he knew and the world he lived in, permanent and visceral. The stuff he could see and touch and experience for himself. And none of this alarmed him, none of it pointed to danger. The only reason he was here and not fast asleep was Leia.

And Leia…

He looked at her, at her shaking form, at the way her eyes seemed to take up half her face. Big, brown and scared out of her mind. Only one thing did that. Han only had one choice here and he knew it.

"Antilles!" he yelled. "Scramble the Rogues. I got the Mercs. You have ninety seconds."

Wedge hesitated and then nodded, taking the rungs of his ladder two at a time and speaking into his comm. Han eyed his fellow Corellian as he drew his own comm to his mouth, set the scramble code for his flight and began to unhook refueling lines around the underbelly of the _Falcon. _

"Take them inside, Chewie," he yelled, and prayed he was making the same decision Leia would have made if she were able.

—O—

The Rogue and Merc scramble code went out almost simultaneously and since most of the pilots had _just _managed to turn in after their celebrations the night before, it was a most unwelcome sound. The officer's corridor went from nearly empty to a mess of half-latched boots and unzipped flight-suits in two seconds flat. They had been drilled and drilled and drilled again in the necessity of quick response times when a scramble code went out.

In fact, most of the Mercs thought this particular code—two flights at once, and two flights who might have been last seen imbibing alcohol against regulations—was some kind of Alliance retribution. Their scramble code, a piercing cry from their comms and then three shorter beeps, had gone off three times in succession already, but no klaxons blared.

It wasn't until they'd hit the corridor that they noticed the Rogues had been summoned as well, and that was as suspicious as anything else.

"This a set-up?" Kral muttered to Teso.

Teso shrugged. "Looks like it. Rogues look worried though."

Kral pressed her lips together and tried to find a Rogue close enough to flag down. The corridor was narrow and overflowing and they only had seconds before they reached the docking bay. She tried several Rogues but none turned around, all focused on dressing or running or trying to do both at the same time.

And then, finally, she caught sight of someone she knew, someone who would tell her what he knew. "Janson!" she yelled. "Hey! Janson!"

The human turned around, lips pressed into a thin line. "What?"

"You know what's going down?"

"No but it's something weird. Scramble code came from the XO, not Skywalker," he said with a quick look.

"_Antilles_ sent your code?" Kral asked.

Janson didn't answer, just turned around and hurried to the open hatch of the corridor that led to the starboard docking bay.

Teso groaned under his breath and preceded Kral into the hatch that headed to the port docking bay. "Bad news," he murmured. "We're in deep shit."

—O—

Han leaned over the medbunk, quickly buckling Luke in with the old, disintegrating safety straps and whispering a low _take it easy, kid. _Then he launched himself through the ring corridor, past the galley, the holochess table, the captain's quarters and into the cockpit.

It was loud as he moved through the hatch, the thrusters humming in the last few moments of the warm-up cycle. Chewie was busy in the copilot's chair, double- and triple-checking the nav panel while it screeched in alarm. Han barely had a moment to note Chewie had strapped Leia into the seat behind the copilot's chair and then he was at the helm.

Taking a deep breath, he went through his own process of calming his nerves and settling the anxious flutters in his stomach. _Hi, baby, _he thought to the mercurial ship. _Let's go see what's happening._

"Green Leader to Green Flight," Han barked into the comm array. "Do you copy?"

"Green Two copies," Salla's voice came through the speaker, low and calm. "We're all here. Mind sharing what the hell you're doing scrambling us in the middle of our sleep cycle?"

"No," he muttered, then spoke up for the benefit of the others on the scramble code. "Green Leader to Rogue Squadron, do you copy?"

Wedge Antilles' voice was so jittery Han immediately sussed out that the other Corellian had given himself a stim shot to bring himself out of his hangovered state. "Rogue Two copies. I second Green Two's question. What's going on?"

"Rogue Leader is out of commission," Han bit out, throwing a glance toward Chewie. "I'm taking command."

"Rogue Four to Green Leader," Janson's voice crackled over the speaker. "Hell of a way to get a promotion."

Han grit his teeth. "Not a promotion."

But Janson wasn't so easily swayed. "Then you should explain how this isn't mutiny, Solo. We don't know where Rogue Leader is. You can't use our scramble code."

Chewie growled in anger but Han waved him off. He could understand where Wes might get an idea like that but he didn't like the accusation. For one, he wasn't a murderer. And two, there was no way he would harm a hair on that kid's head. He'd spent way too much energy keeping him alive.

"Green Fourteen to Rogue Four, shut yer mouthhole and follow orders."

"Make him, Greenie," Hobbie Klivian said.

"All of you s_hut up_," Han ordered, flipping switches to engage the inertial compensators. "Green Two, Rogue Two, on me."

"Copy," Salla said, immediate and strong. "Which heading?"

"No heading. You two on my six, everyone else get ready for launch. You come out when I say so."

"Rogue Two to Green Leader, why are we scrambling?" Wedge asked. "I trust you, man, but you gotta give us something more to go on."

Han opened his mouth to respond but was stopped by a shivering body stepping between the pilot and copilot's seats. Leia's hand shot from his peripheral vision, small and white, and stabbed the comm control.

"Rogue Two this is Leia Organa," she said and if he hadn't been awoken by her terror, Han never would have guessed that she'd spent the better part of the past ten minutes a blank-eyed shadow. "Green Leader has command. Follow his orders."

"Yes, sir," Wedge responded.

Han turned wide eyes to Leia as she staggered back into her chair and lifted a hand to ward off his worry. "Go," she murmured.

Han settled into the nerfhide leather of his chair, old and creaky, and squared off his shoulders. "Alright," he said. "Green Two, Rogue Two, on me."

—O—

The cosmic stillness of the Alliance's hiding place looked unchanging. No moons, no planets, no visible movement anywhere in the viewport of the _Millennium Falcon, _the _Starlight Intruder _or Antilles' X-wing. All they could see was a wide expanse of darkness: the fleet at their backs, the darkness surrounding them. Everything looked okay on the scopes, too, but the scopes had always looked clear. The gravity wells were an infernal source of safety and blindness: hiding the Alliance as much as they hid the danger around them.

They found nothing. Nothing aberrant, nothing unusual. No sign of invaders or Imperial ships.

"Leia?" Han asked.

He turned to look at her, small in his navigator's chair, finding that her eyes had settled, no longer running laps around her field of vision, and she'd finally caught her breath. But her paleness, the shake in her hands… those persisted. Han had to work very hard not to let his fear for her take over.

Chewie growled, wordless, untranslatable: a worried kind of nudge.

"I don't know," she murmured. "I just… I need to _do_ something. It's like, it's like… I need to be out here."

Han shared a nervous look with Chewie before refocusing on Leia. "Like the marketplace?"

"No." She shook her head, vigor in the movement. "Not like that."

"Then like what?"

Staring out the viewport, she bit her lip. Han was flummoxed; he felt trapped, like he couldn't go forward or backward or sideways because here he was, dealing with what he assumed was the Force, and he barely believed in _that, _much less in early warnings and ghost stories of scary villians in the emptiness of space. There was _nothing here. _His eyes, the _Falcon_'s scopes… all of it said they were safe.

But he believed in _them_, Luke and Leia. He believed that _they_ believed something was out here. He believed that danger lurked nearby, close enough to touch, close enough to take away the life he was happily building on that big, ugly Mon Cal cruiser behind them.

"Green Two to Green Leader," Salla said. "Do you have orders for us or are we just out here for the view?"

"Rogue Two to Green Two, there _is_ no view."

Wedge's voice, annoyed and jittery. Han shook his head, ready with a quick _eyes sharp, Antilles, _but he was beat to the punch.

"Rogue Two, Green Squadron kindly requests you shut up and let the boss think," Salla said.

"Green Two, Rogue Squadron kindly requests you take your lips off Solo's ass."

"You want to make this a _problem, _tough guy?" Salla asked.

"I just want to go hurl in my cabin in peace, Zend, you're the one going all _Commander Knows Best _on us."

A short intake of breath, then Salla said, "Commander _does _know best. Or at least mine does."

"Hey, now—"

"Where's _your _commander, Rogue Two? Skywalker was at the party last night and look who's up here doing the hard work. Not Skywalker_._"

Han's irritation with them both skyrocketed. He knew he should keep a cool head, knew he had a job to do here even if he wasn't sure he knew exactly what it was. Leia wouldn't have steered him out here for nothing. But these _kids _and their fucking whining for attention and favor were enough to make him want to strangle them both. He tried to keep quiet, tried to stifle the angry words that were bubbling in his throat but he couldn't just let them spiral into petty arguments—

"Listen up, motherfuckers," he bit out. "I have exactly _one _fuck to give and neither of you are getting it right now. So shut up and _look._"

A beat, then Antilles: "Look for what, Green Leader? There's nothing out here."

Han felt a trickle of doubt, tentacles of an ugly feeling in his chest. Leia wasn't talking anymore and Luke hadn't said anything at all; maybe he hadn't gotten it right? Maybe the Force was like a Chandrilian Fire-Box: the more you looked at it, the simpler it got and then when you walked into it, it swallowed you whole. Maybe this was a gimmick, or a false alarm, or the Force was confusing what was happening now and what would happen later? Did the Force get confused?

No. Leia wouldn't react like she had if something wasn't horribly wrong. And Luke, too—

"Just keep looking," he growled. "There's gotta be something out here."

He stopped as Chewie turned into a whirlwind of activity. With a grunt of surprise he stood and reached for switches above Leia's head, skewing all the diagnostics to a string of coordinates that held absolutely no meaning to Han. His copilot imputed a coordinate that made no sense, a zone to starboard that held nothing on the scopes, that looked as dull and black as every other zone around them. Han stared at him, dumbfounded.

"The hell?" Han said, forgetting to turn off the mic, only switching it off when he heard his own voice echo through the comm array. "What's wrong?"

Chewie warbled a low note and even Han had to think a moment to discern what he'd said.

"_Which _sector?" he asked. "Did you see something?"

_No, _Chewie said clearer, more absolute. _Did you not hear Little Jedi?_

Han turned to Leia but her eyes still seemed far away. He refocused on the Wookiee. "I can't hear the kid, pal," he explained. "He's way back in the medbunk."

_I can hear him fine, _Chewie growled.

"Good for you," Han said, sarcasm heavy in his tone. "What. Did. He. Say?"

_He is muttering about Zone 266._

"Zone 266?"

_It appears my ears are good for more than listening to you and Little Princess—_

Han lunged for the comm array on instinct, though Wedge wouldn't understand Chewie anyway. "Zone 266?" he asked again. "You're sure?"

Chewie made a soft groan in the affirmative.

Han nodded and engaged the sublight drives, toggling the shields to full power and cutting fuel to the engines. "Green Two, Rogue Two: on me," he said.

They acknowledged the order and the _Falcon _slid through the emptiness, her escorts close on her tail. Han opened up all power to the sensor suites and kept his eyes peeled. The damn gravity wells made the whole area a fucking nest. And if Luke and Leia were right, if Vader was out here somewhere, he wasn't just going to announce his presence.

Silence in the cockpit as they slowly entered Zone 266. Han's eyes scanned the viewport, trying to discern black-on-black, the lack of light, the lack of _anything. _He'd done this just yesterday afternoon, of course, but now, without the distraction of training his flight, he found himself on edge, second-guessing every wrinkle and fold of the gravity well readings.

"Where are you, you wheezing bastard?" he murmured to himself.

"Green Two to Green Leader, who are you—?"

A slim hand shot out from his right, grabbed the control yoke. Han jerked back, surprised, as Leia yanked the yoke to starboard, flipping the _Falcon _into an uncontrolled spin as two laser blasts skimmed the cockpit canopy. He blinked, tried to reconcile that the blasts didn't look like the Empire's typical laser blasts, shone more like console-frying beta-blasts than the red of shoot-to-kill hardware.

Han dismissed it, swore and wrenched the yoke away, stabilizing the _Falcon _out of her spiral and flipping all shields to maximum.

"Enemy fire!" he yelled into the comm and stabbed the scopes to full power. "Evasive maneuvers!"

"Green Leader, we have TIEs," Wedge said, keeping close to Han's flank.

Chewie growled a curse in Shyriiwook and opened the comm for the emergency signal, calling for reinforcements over the scramble code. Han wiped a hand over his eyes and tried to track the TIE who'd shot at him far off to port. The bastard zipped into a gravity well, disappeared from the scope, and then reappeared seconds later a few klicks away.

"Blasted Imps," Han said through gritted teeth. "Where's your Destroyer?"

Han caught a sudden dip from Wedge's X-wing and then more blasts shot from the empty black of Zone 266.

"Where the hell are they coming from?" Wedge shouted, echoing Han's thoughts.

The _Starlight Intruder _made a wide curve to cover Wedge's flank and Salla's voice came through, scrambled and tinny. "They're using the gravity wells as cover."

Han had come to the same conclusion, thinking the Destroyer that housed these TIEs must be sitting somewhere in that sector behind or inside a gravity well that obscured its location. He turned to Leia, eyed her faraway look, her soundless lips. She seemed lost in thought, only able to communicate through action.

He grabbed her hand, squeezing hard. "Leia."

She turned to him, gripped his hand just as hard.

"Is it him?" he asked. "Is it Vader?"

Han could hear a deep inhale over the comm—from Salla, he thought—but he disregarded it. Chewie growled, a warning to take the helm again before they were all blown to spacedust, but Han ignored him. Leia didn't do anything, didn't say anything, but her eyes and her lips and the pale, ghostly look of her skin answered for her.

He gave one quick nod and turned to the viewport, to the empty black in front of him. "Rogue Two, Green Two, the _Executor _is in Zone 266."

"_Shit," _Salla muttered as Wedge whispered the equivalent in low Corellian.

"Yeah," Han answered. "Chewie already scrambled the rest of the fleet."

Wedge cleared his throat. "Are you ordering an evac?"

Han paused; he hadn't gotten that far. Obviously that's exactly what _Home One _needed to do but the logistics of deploying the fleet to cover the retreat were massive. They were on an unsanctioned mission out here, defenseless because he'd scrambled his and Luke's squadron on the basis of Leia's odd reaction, a reaction he _would never have seen if he hadn't been sleeping with her. _

"Tell Carlist," Leia said, and it sounded like it took every ounce of energy she had. "He knows. He'll order it."

Han nodded, opened the comm channel to General Carlist Rieekan and prayed the Mercs and Rogues were ready for a bloodbath.

—O—

_Author's Note: Chapter 6 will be posted Sunday, March 1st. Have a lovely February, Valentine's Day, Galentine's Day, Single's Awareness Day, whatever you celebrate! Thanks again_, _**AmongstEmeraldClouds**__,_ _for your support and critical eye. And thank you, readers! -KR_


	6. Caught

_Caught_

* * *

"Shit, shit, shit, _shit."_

Janson muttered the refrain as he fired his thrusters, hovering over the starboard docking bay plating and engaging his sublights to push through the pressure seal on the bay doors. He repeated it over and over again, a kind of prayer for safety, for success, because—

Because shit was definitely about to hit the fan. The _Executor _was out there. _Vader was out there._

"Rogue Four to Rogue Two, do we have an eye on the target?"

"Negative, Four," Wedge's voice came through the comm. "But we _do _have a heading."

Janson made a face though no one could see it. "A blind target?"

"_We're_ the blind ones, Rogue Four," a female voice chimed in and it took a moment for him to place it as Salla Zend's.

Janson opened his mouth to respond with a smart remark but was interrupted by Solo's deep voice, calm and collected and a little pissed off always. "Rogues, Greens. We have orders to hold the line while _Home One _evacuates."

Hobbie's dour voice hopped into a new range of outright panic. "_Who_ ordered the evac?"

"I did," a gruff, sharp voice chimed in and Janson recognized it immediately as Rieekan's. "Hold the line. Follow Commanders Skywalker and Solo's orders. Once _Home One _is clear, retreat to the evac heading being sent to your consoles now."

"General Rieekan, sir, we have not heard from Commander Skywalker," Janson argued. "He hasn't been seen since we got the scramble code from Antilles."

"Rogue Three to _Home One, _how do we know Rogue Leader is safe?"

"I have him," Solo said. "Kid's not in good shape but he's stable."

Janson pursed his lips, nervous. The Rogues were used to their commander being a kind of talisman; since he'd been named Rogue Leader they'd had minimal losses and had become something of an elite squadron. New Alliance pilots tested into the Rogues and they had a reputation within the motley assortment of rebels for getting the job done quickly, efficiently and with creative solutions. All that excellence stemmed directly from Skywalker.

But a Rogue Squadron without their commander? Without the hero of Yavin? Janson tried to shove down the worry but it persisted, cold and hard, in his gut.

"_Home One _to Green Leader, where is Pearl?"

Janson cocked an eyebrow at his comm and at the obvious worry in Rieekan's voice but disregarded it in favor of assessing the scene around him. He was clear of _Home One_'s shadow and could now see the larger field; thirty-some ships fanned out along the port heading near Zone 266, a mixture of sleek X-wings and the Merc's mismatched flight of freighters and fighters and everything in-between. Staggered with an ever-expanding front line, ships added to the mix one-by-one. He also caught a glimpse of three spacecraft popping in and out of view a little further off, what he thought must be Wedge, Salla and the _Falcon. _

No one had given the order to engage, though, so the rest of the Rogues and Mercs waited.

"I got her, too," Han said. "We'll get them both to the rendezvous, _Home One."_

Wes blinked at that, wondered at the tone of Solo's voice, the way the hair on the back of his own neck rose.

"Rogue Four copies," Janson said. "Ready to follow your command, Green Leader."

—0—

Han muted the comm, took a deep breath and turned to his copilot. "Time for a plan," he murmured.

The Wookiee cocked his head to the side and shrugged, a helpless look on his face. _I do not know, Cub. The _Executor _is a formidable foe._

"No kidding."

Han struggled to keep his wits about him. He could feel the full weight of the situation on his shoulders and scrambled to heft it with responsibility and calm. In truth he wasn't worried about his own performance; he'd fought Vader and won twice now. The black bastard wasn't invincible and there was no reason to think the _Falcon_ was doomed out here, in the big nothing of Sector 266.

But this was Han's first real battle in command of others. A flash of anxiety, sinking into his bones, heavy. Had he done enough to prepare them? Had he focused on the right things? Would they die out here, sacrifice their lives to the goddamn altar of evil because he was cocky enough to think he could take charge of all of them, could adequately lead them through what was going to be a tough skirmish?

"We don't have to win_,"_ Leia whispered, so low Han almost didn't hear her. "We just need to cover the retreat."

He turned to her. "A little hope here, Princess. We can do better than that."

"No one can win against the _Executor._"

His temper flared, not against Leia herself but against her pessimism. The jaded soldier came out against horrible odds, tried-and-true. Only to him and a few others she trusted: to everyone else she was the paradigm of hope. And yet in the quiet of the _Falcon_'s cockpit, as they watched the starfield full of danger, full of beta-blasts and tractor beams and deadly ion cannons, the last thing he needed was his cynosure losing faith.

"I can win against anything," he said and turned to the viewport. "How many TIEs are docked with her?"

Chewie growled, _Over a hundred when she attacked Kashyyyk._

"Two flights," Leia corrected. "Closer to 150, according to our spies."

Han gritted his teeth. "But they aren't shooting at us yet. Just the one."

_Give them time, _Chewie muttered.

Something clicked in Han's brain, a question he hadn't known he'd had. "They aren't shooting at us," he muttered.

He jerked into action, thrust the _Falcon _into a hard dive, flipped through a gravity well and slingshotted through vacuum like a podracer around a curve.

_What are you doing?! _Chewie roared in surprise.

"Testing a theory," Han answered his copilot. "Rogue Two, Green Two, stick with me and stay close. Don't get more than a few meters off my flank."

Wedge and Salla each copied and Han set course straight into the heart of where he believed the original beta-blast had come from. He couldn't see him, but Han imagined Vader's TIE lurking in the darkness, waiting for the _Falcon _like a predator stalking its prey.

He hadn't imagined the beta-blast; he just hadn't realized what it meant. No one used a beta-blaster during an ambush, not unless the aim was not to destroy but to _capture. _

Luke and Leia, that's what Vader wanted.

_You want them so bad? _Han thought, a flicker of confidence lighting his pathway like a flame in the darkness. _Come and get 'em._

Thirty seconds into the black and the first green beta-blasts swept over the _Falcon _like miniature asteroids. Han smiled. Dipping under the blasts, he easily swooped beneath the lasers with all the _Falcon_'s grace and power.

"Gotcha," he muttered and keyed his comm.

—0—

"Green Leader to Greens and Rogues, hold the line. Do not engage. Repeat, do _not_ engage."

Janson stared at his comm in incredulity. "Rogue Four to Green Leader, _why the hell not?_"

He had a good view of the starfield: below and to starboard of the center of the blockade line, with clear scopes and a strong visual. Energy mass signatures indicated that the source of the TIEs—a Star Destroyer at the very least by the looks of it—nestled in a gigantic gravity well. Behind him, _Home One _began to lumber off, slow and bumbling. The waves of gravitic disturbance had rocked Wes more than once as the cruiser retreated, displaced energy rocketing through the fleet.

"Because they're after _me_, not you," Solo said. "And the more of you that crowd me, the more likely it is someone gets blasted by accident."

And that was the most ludicrous thing Wes had heard all day. Apparently Hobbie thought so, too.

"Respectfully, Green Leader, that's bullshit."

Wes chimed in, "You can't take them all by yourself."

"I don't have to," Solo replied. "The second _Home One _jumps, we jump, too."

Wes' mouth gaped. "You're gonna get yourself killed, Green Leader. You and everyone on that bucket you're flying."

"And Rogue Two and Green Two," a voice Janson didn't recognize said. "Come off your ego, Green Leader."

"It's not his ego," a female voice said into the comm. "He knows what he's doing. Watch."

Janson watched through his scopes. To the naked eye, the gravity wells distorted the shapes and distances between the three small Alliance ships and whatever Imperial ships were hiding out there. The scopes designated Wedge, Salla and the _Falcon _as friendlies, and Janson watched breathless as their symbols popped into the top right of his screen. Three TIEs looped after them, quick and sure. Wincing, Janson sent up a prayer to Ghaldi, the Tanaabian god of mercy, as his beloved XO's X-wing came within easy firing distance of the TIEs.

"C'mon, man," Janson breathed, too soft to be picked up by the comm.

The _Falcon _climbed and in seconds Salla and Wedge did, too. It was a strange maneuver, opening their afts to fire, and Wes watched in horror as the Alliance ships climbed, steady and slow, clearly in range of the ion cannons he assumed were trained on him.

Wes switched the scopes, looking at energy signatures, expecting the ugly, glaring red of laserfire. A green beam shot from the TIE closest to the _Falcon_'s aft instead, narrowly missing it as the old CEC freighter tipped into a dive with the quickest jerk Janson had ever seen. At the same moment, the two other TIES shot at Salla and Wedge, who respectively jinked to avoid them.

Janson exhaled. "What's wrong with the Imp lasers?"

"Rogue Ten to Rogue Four, it's something new. Maybe a kind of portable ion cannon?"

"Rogue Ten, that's stupid," Dak said. "TIEs can't have portable ion cannons! Ion cannons are bigger than four TIEs put together."

"So they shrunk them," Wes said, defending Hobbie like any good wingman would do. "R&D came up with something new and they're trying it out in the gravity wells to minimize their own losses."

"Green Six to all of Rogue Squadron, you're absolutely _dense. _Those are beta-blasts."

Janson scowled. "The hell are beta-blasts, Green Six?"

A different voice now, female and alien. "Green Fourteen here. Beta-blasts are what pirates use. They fry central droid brains but they don't destroy their targets."

"_Pirates,_" Hobbie scoffed. "These aren't pirates! They're Imps! Look at all the TIEs."

Wes switched his scopes again, watched the _Falcon _swing broadside to a giant gravity well, her port flank disappearing in what he at first thought was a destructive blast of laserfire. The _Falcon_'s flank reappeared a heartbeat later and Janson realized that the gravity well had disrupted his scope's display. He exhaled in relief as Wedge's X-wing reappeared along with the _Starlight Intruder. _

"They're not shooting to destroy, Rogues," Qiee said. "Trust us. We know pirate arms when we see them."

"They aim to capture," another Green pilot added.

A third voice chimed in. "Takes a Merc to spot a pirate."

Janson gritted his teeth, feeling a confusing mix of gratitude and annoyance at Green Squadron's quick pick-up of a new Imperial tactic. "Okay, Green Squadron. Do any of you geniuses know _who _they are trying to capture?"

The Greens quieted and Janson winced at the telling silence, at the crimson thread of their thoughts. There was only one person the Empire wanted so badly they would race across the galaxy on the findings of a single probe.

—0—

Luke Skywalker focused on breathing, focused on reality. He fought as his body was assaulted by dark shadows, as his mind was surrounded by inevitable defeat. He inhaled, tried to focus on the work of his lungs, exhaled, pushed back on the darkness that felt ready to swallow his soul.

He could feel the _Falcon_'s medbunk beneath him, the straps that held him down. He knew that Chewie had carried him into the old freighter, knew that Han had strapped him in. The sweat on his brow prickled, the evasive maneuvering turning somehow distinguishable from his own tremors, the shaking that consumed him.

Something dire was happening outside of the _Falcon_'s hulls.

But that was all secondary to the pressure in his brain, to the heavy weight that sat on his chest. Luke felt like he was being strangled by a psychic cloud, like the cells in his body were being squeezed so tightly that he feared he might implode in on himself. The shadows surrounded him, choked him, fought with him for the very oxygen in his lungs.

_Ben! _he tried, reaching for the essence of his old mentor. _Ben, help me!_

But Ben did not answer. All that Luke felt and heard was Vader: his dark stranglehold on the unseen universe around Luke. Pitch blackness. Empty, lifeless and cold.

He didn't want to move. He didn't want to _do _anything. His limbs would not work and it was all he could do to keep himself breathing.

What he could do, what he _knew _he could do, was keep the darkness at bay. Luke was being strangled, yes, but as long as Vader was focused on him, he would not be focused on anyone else. Luke couldn't move, but he could hold himself fast. He could counter the darkness within the bonds of his own body. And as long as Luke did that, he was helping.

_You can't have me, _he thought to the dark cloud. _The light always defeats the dark._

_You are not the only one, _the darkness whispered back.

Luke struggled to understand the words, struggled to keep the dark with him. The thought slipped from him and he bore down on his own light. _You can't have me, you can't have me, you can't have me—_

"Go," he whispered, urging his friends to move, the ones who could fight the battle within the scope of the physical world. "_Go."_

—0—

Han was sweating and muttering curses under his breath, whipping through gravity well after gravity well with maniacal speed. His arms were shaking, the strain of flying through such a hazardous trajectory making his whole body ache. In theory, a jaunt around a bunch of gravity wells while playing with non-lethal beta-blasts was fun. A challenge. But the stakes were too high for sloppiness or a moment of wandering focus. This was the Empire. The blasts might not be fatal but the interrogation _would_ be.

His worst nightmare had been realized. Vader had come for both Luke and Leia. He had known it would come to this, had told Leia so. He'd known since the Diagnostics had declared the probe to be of Imperial manufacturing.

And she hadn't listened.

So they'd fallen right into Vader's trap. Whatever he'd done to make Luke and Leia react the way they had had worked like a charm: Leia had told Han to _go _and that's what he'd done without hesitation, without really questioning why. Now, though, it felt like that instruction had come straight from a monster in a respiration mask. The Empire had laid a trap and Han had flown them right up to the _Executor _like an overeager smuggler on his first run for Jabba.

Han made a face and tried to banish that awful thought into the depths of his brain where it belonged. Not helpful. He could figure this out later once they'd survived this clusterfuck of a night.

Wiping his brow with his sleeve, he jerked the yoke into a nosedive that tugged at his torso like an enormous magnet. Flipping between and through gravity wells was tricky business and left him unsure what his goal even _was, _beyond surviving long enough for _Home One _to hit lightspeed. The constant, hair-trigger decisions that were keeping them moving were bound to fail at some point.

Han didn't know how much longer he could hold Vader off.

"Rogue Two to Green Leader, I'm starting to lose it," Wedge said. "Getting sloppy."

Han grimaced. "Hang in there, Rogue Two."

"Go ahead, get sloppy," Salla said, though Han could hear the line of worry in her voice. "You'd be making room for me on the Rogue roster."

Han dove beneath the edges of a particularly nasty gravity well, cut power and let the TIE on his tail flail past him and reappear clear on the other side of the zone. "Rogue Leader will kill me if you kick it, Rogue Two," he said, trying to help Wedge as much as he could.

"Wasn't planning on kicking it, Green Leader," Wedge said. "But this isn't sustainable. One of us is bound to get—ah, _kriff_—bound to get hit sooner or later."

Han winced to see the bright flash of green just off Wedge's wing. "I think you're right," he muttered.

Home One _is nearly out of the perimeter, _Chewie announced. _Two minutes until she jumps. _

"You hear that, Rogue Two? Two minutes."

"Copy, Green Leader," Wedge said.

Han exhaled, chanced a look to Chewie before he took the _Falcon _into another gravity well. "Don't know how we do this, buddy," he said."Two minutes is a long time."

He turned another look to Leia, saw a beautiful, unfathomably strong woman with eyes trained on the viewport, her lips pressed together in a tight line. He felt his chest crack open. _Can I keep her safe? _He shouldn't have brought her on board, should have taken her to Rieekan. Luke, too. He was out of his depth here, fighting a war he couldn't see against an enemy he didn't understand.

But in the moment it had felt important to keep them with him. In a galaxy that was cruel, heartless, where decency failed on a regular basis and it was easy to think good had died a long time ago, he'd always trusted himself. He'd been raised—or maybe not _raised_ so much as _hit the ground running_—to trust his instincts and his abilities. The safest place his people could be were with him. Period.

He'd move mountains for them; for Leia and Luke and Chewie. And he'd do this, too, even in service to a mystical energy field he couldn't see. He blew out his breath and narrowed his eyes, ready for the fight ahead. One minute and fifty seconds. He could do this.

"Wait," Leia said, just as Chewie growled under his breath.

"What?" Han asked them both.

_Little Jedi says—_

"Go into the cloud," Leia finished.

Han quirked an eyebrow to his copilot but already knew they would follow the orders, would fly into the same dense electromagnetic cloud that they'd flown through the day before, where the probe had lain in wait for them to stumble on it. The cloud that had made a mess of the Merc's nav systems, the cloud that had nearly decapitated Salla.

Was that crazy? Hell yes, it was. Most pilots spent a career avoiding such high-stakes situations like an interference field that could pound them into dust if they weren't careful.

But he wasn't _most pilots. _

"Heads up, Green Two, Rogue Two," Han said into the mic, readying himself for another challenge. "We have a new plan."

—0—

"Green Leader to _Home One,_" Solo's voice blared from the starboard comm array next to Carlist Rieekan's hip.

Carlist turned weary eyes to the comm as a reprieve from staring at the nav console on the other side of the bridge. Watching digits click down and knowing the _Executor _could pop out of its gravity well at any moment to kill them all. Ackbar stood on the bridge, stiff and somber; Dodonna was further aft in the control center for starfighter command. Everyone knew their role, efficiency drummed into Alliance members because they had nothing else to offer except pure, fleet-footed defense.

As for Carlist, the Alderaanian had offered himself as liaison between Solo and the _Home One _command staff. His reputation didn't concern him: it hadn't since everyone and everything he loved had been annihilated two years ago. He had approved the evacuation on a spur-of-the-moment hunch and had been right in that assessment. Whatever this ambush was, it hadn't gone as the Imperials had planned and the fact that _Home One _had sustained no damage so far was an unexpected windfall. The hammer would drop, he was sure, but until then he'd have some faith.

And as part of that faith, he would support his people. Green and Rogue Squadrons were under his command. The fact that the executive officers of _both _squadrons had run off on some hairbrained, nonsensical mission didn't concern him so much as the knowledge that all of those good people would resort to sacrifice if it came to it.

And while there was little that could shake him after his homeworld's demise, losing the princess would destroy him. It was a simple fact.

"Go for _Home One,_" he answered.

Solo's voice was strained through the comm. "We're going into the electromagnetic interference field, vector 6300-A."

Carlist glanced back to the nav-board, seeing the jump-point numbers entering the last one-and-a-half-minute mark.

"I copy, Green Leader. We are under two minutes to jump. Can you last that long out there?"

He'd seen the reports from yesterday, the danger of the cloud. Lieutenant Zend had lost power to her cockpit for nearly ninety seconds and the chances of that happening again were incalculable. They hadn't known the cloud had existed at that time; perhaps it was some movement of the gravity wells had created it. Space dust and spare particles whizzing through gravity abnormalities at the speed of light? A long-lost planetary body from eons ago? Whatever its cause, it posed unique problems to the three intrepid vessels taking the brunt of the Imperial ambush and he wanted—_needed_—to know that Solo knew what he was doing.

"Our onboard mystic is giving the order," Solo replied. "Seems pretty sure that's where we need to be."

Carlist puzzled at _onboard mystic _for a moment before he realized Solo meant Skywalker. "We might lose comm contact with you out there."

They just plain _didn't know. _The cloud's rapid formation and changing properties seemed like an enormous risk, considering _Home One_'s proximity and vector for escape.

"Carlist," Solo said, the edge of anger creeping into his tone. "Vader's after someone on this ship. It's the only reason for the beta-blasteers. And at some point the logical thing for him to do is turn his sights on _you _to force our hand. They follow us, they stay away from _Home One_. Simple."

Carlist stood stock-still, aware of cautious eyes on him. But the needs of the many took precedence over the few and his choice wasn't really a choice. _Please keep her safe, _he prayed.

"Copy," he said. "You have approval. Clear skies, Green Leader."

—0—

Vader turned off his targeting computer. He'd never liked using it when in the cockpit and he didn't need the sensors or the alarms anyway. What use was it if he already knew what it was about to tell him? The Force had so much more to give him than any piece of electronics ever had.

_Almost, _he projected to the newborns in front of him.

They were a cloud of movement and anxiety in the Force, so bright and clear they astounded him with their potency. The old freighter was aglow with it, powerful beyond anything but his own presence in the Force. Organa was a tempest of flurry and function, but she didn't seem to have the same kind of laser-clear reception that the boy did. Vader couldn't connect as well to her; he assumed it was because Skywalker was his son, though that was pure speculation on his part. It wasn't as if the Jedi had done a great deal of research between Force-sensitive fathers and sons in their day.

One of the many things he now wanted to know.

The freighter changed heading and Vader watched with detached fascination as it seemed to speed in a direct line. Suspicious, considering this confrontation with the _Millennium Falcon _had been primarily one of chase and escape. Clearly they wanted him to follow.

He did the math, looking at what he stood to gain and what he could sense in the Force around him. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, nothing seemed to warn him against following the three ships. And the Force would warn him—he _commanded _it to warn him—if this was some sort of trap.

"On me," he ordered his two best TIE pilots and they followed the Alliance gambit, whatever that might be. _Almost, _he projected. _Almost._

—0—

Han blinked twice and forced himself to focus. One minute and forty seconds until _Home One _could jump. He had to keep Antilles, Salla and everyone aboard the _Falcon _alive for one minute and forty seconds before he could hit lightspeed. With a grim press of his lips, he set his internal clock—his natural ability to keep track of the passage of time—by watching the _Falcon_'s atomic display. The internal and external rhythms meshed and the seconds became data in his muscles, marrow in his bones, caught in the breath of his lungs.

_One minute thirty-eight seconds._

"Rogue Two, Green Two, fan out. Stay close enough for me to see you, but take care of the wingmen for me."

"Copy, Leader," said Salla.

"Rogue Two copies," Wedge answered. "You better know what you're doing, Solo."

The X-wing and the _Intruder_ veered off in a lazy diagonal to the _Falcon_'s heading. Salla curved downward and Wedge went up; competent pilots, the both of them, working through dimension like experienced fighters in their own right. He felt a flicker of pride, not because of their training—both of them had far more experience outside of his command than in it—but because they trusted him enough to follow orders that probably sounded insane.

_Little Jedi is not saying anything, _Chewie rumbled.

"_Now _he shuts up?" Han said, though there was no bite in his words. He had no idea what Luke was dealing with back there. Given the opportunity, he'd take the helm every time.

Turning to check on Leia, he found her sitting quietly, alert and aware, eyes trained on the viewport in front of her. She found his eyes and sent him a quick nod.

Licking his lips, he nodded once, and then turned back to the controls. "Slow and steady," he ordered Chewie. "Let's keep him interested but not too close."

Chewie grumbled a reply and Han focused on their vector into the cloud. Yesterday they had stumbled onto it by accident; now that he knew the danger it posed, he kept his eyes open and trained. The enemy in this interference field wasn't physical so much as a constant battle against electromagnetic pockets and waves of radiation that seemed to be undetectable to the average ship and the abnormalities of the gravity wells didn't help, either. The cloud in Zone 266 was a murky cesspool of hidden horrors and knowing about it did nothing to dim the raging firelight of stress in Han's gut.

The _Falcon _slipped beneath a gravity well—one they only registered because of a slight ripple in the darkness—and Han noted the one minute thirty second mark until _Home One _jumped. He checked the aft sensors, saw Vader's TIE coming up on him. A second later a single green beam shot out beneath the _Falcon_'s belly and Han swung into evasive maneuvers, jinking to starboard to avoid it.

"Watch for the wells," he warned Wedge and Salla. "And the interference fields."

"No shit," Wedge called out. "How did you do this yesterday?"

Salla gave a hoarse, mirthless laugh. "No one was shooting at us yesterday."

"It's like flying through a—"

Wedge's voice cut off suddenly and the X-wing disappeared from Han's scopes. His stomach dropped and he heard Chewie exhale in a rush.

"Rogue Two?" he called.

Han's sensors crackled and a sharp whine echoed through the _Falcon_'s cockpit, similar to what they'd experienced the day before: a sure indication that they had breached the edge of the interference field. Screeching, the tell-tale alarm of electromagnetism hit the very center of his brain like knives.

"Wedge!" Han called again, yelling to be heard over the din. "Where the hell are you, buddy?"

"He's in a pocket," Salla answered him, even as her own controls screeched around her. "A—a bubble? Some kind of gravity disturbance, I dunno. I got a visual on him."

"Is he alive?"

"Copy, Leader. He's in one piece."

Han didn't allow himself a celebration and instead toggled the alarm disable patch. There was nothing he could do about the environmental or electrical systems but at least he could override the proximity alarms. "Where's his pursuit?"

"I think Wedge pulled a Cranker's Switch," she replied. "His TIE isn't on the scopes."

Han dove to avoid another green beam, narrowly missing his sensor dish by centimeters. "Keep an eye on him and watch yourself."

Salla grunted into the comm and then copied as she swung out of sensor range, too.

One minute. He had to keep them with him for one more minute. "Okay," he murmured to himself, then louder he said, "Chewie, can you find where we had to pick up Salla last time?"

Chewie rumbled in the affirmative, already catching onto Han's plan.

Leia's voice was quiet. "Where her system was fried?"

Han shrugged. "You got a better plan, Worship?"

The nickname was broken off by a sudden jerk to port in order to avoid another close-cut beta-blast. Vader was coming in hot with that shit, Han realized. The cannon seemed to be able to fire quite a few blasts in succession, an improvement on the old pirate model Han was familiar with.

Another blast, this time so close to the _Falcon_'s aft that the lights in the cockpit went out for a millisecond before the effects wore off.

Forty-five seconds.

"Fuck," he said, and threw them into a corkscrew just to get some distance from the TIE. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_."

_Systems back online, _Chewie roared over the noise of the alarms. _But another direct hit and_—

"I know, I know," Han said, distracted. "Where're my coordinates, Chewie?"

"This isn't working," Leia said. "He's going to clip us."

He ignored her. Thirty-nine seconds. "_Now, _Chewie."

He flipped the _Falcon, _cut power in a split second, half a breath, as the TIE shot past them with a whine loud enough to be heard over the alarms. Unfortunately, Vader was already on to the deceit and cut acceleration just past the _Falcon, _forcing Han to peel away to port to avoid a collision. The TIE was closer now, the green beams shooting right and left, on his tail like gnats on a carcass.

"Oh, goddess," Leia murmured behind him. "This isn't going to work—"

"Chewie!" Han yelled, at his wit's end, his heart beating so loud in his ears that he could feel it in his head, against his ribs, his lungs, beating too fast to be healthy. Thirty seconds.

The Wookiee rumbled. _On your console now._

Han looked down briefly to see the display, nodded to himself, and pressed the accelerator to max capacity. "Come on," he whispered. "Come _on._"

The _Falcon _raced to the coordinates Chewie had sent into the nav computer, quick as she ever was, but Vader's TIE held fast, maintaining distance, and Han struggled against the nav computer to jink and juke out of the way of the beta-blasts, frequent and terrifyingly close. Han was sure a lesser pilot would have been hit by now; it was taking all his considerable piloting prowess to stay ahead of the Dark Lord.

The TIE clung to the _Falcon_'s tail like a being possessed. Beta-blasts shone through the canopy, hot like fire through the glare shield, and he briefly caught sight of the _Intruder _as a TIE exploded just ahead of her.

He toggled his comm "Green Two, get Rogue Two and jump," he said.

"Negative, Green Leader," Salla interrupted before he finished the last word.

Han shook his head though she couldn't see it. "Twenty seconds, Green Two."

"No—"

"Salla!" he yelled as another beta-blast shot from the TIE, wide, nowhere near the _Falcon_. "Get the hell out of—"

The lights cut out in the _Falcon_'s cockpit. The hum of the thrusters was silenced and their acceleration stopped so suddenly that Han was thrown into the console in front of him. The alarms ceased with an ominous _clunk _and what was left was a cold, tumbling mess of nothing so startlingly fast that Han wasn't sure that the wide beta-blast _hadn't _actually hit them. The comms, the displays, everything was dark. He couldn't see anything or anyone except the darkness of the viewport in front of them, unchanging and unhelpful.

Han's breath left him in a rush as he instinctively looked to his copilot even though he couldn't see him. "Where is he?"

Chewie's response was lackluster, the Wookiee equivalent of a human shrug.

"You think the cloud shorted us out?" Leia asked from the back, leaning forward with her hands on Chewie's chair. "Not a beta-blast?"

"Hopefully," he answered her. "Ten seconds until _Home One _can jump."

In point of fact he didn't know. One of two things was about to happen. Either the _Executor _would use her tractor beam to tow them into her docking bays after Vader relayed their location and their status as victim to the beta-blasts.

Or their instrumentation would pop to life in a matter of seconds as Salla's had the day before.

Leia sucked in a breath. "That's a big gamble," she whispered, though it felt loud in the hush of the cockpit.

_Five, four, three..._

"Yeah, well," he muttered, distracted.

_Two._

_One._

_Home One _had cleared to jump the system. Without scanners or comms, he didn't know for sure that they had—any number of unforeseen problems might have arisen; battles had a nasty habit of going off-script—but at the very least he knew Vader wasn't out there messing with the larger fleet.

And without comms, he didn't know if Salla and Wedge had jumped, either, and that bothered him, too. Salla was stubborn but she wasn't an idiot. The _Intruder _and Wedge's X-wing were free of the TIEs and could figure out how to get out of the system. They were two of the brightest minds in the Alliance, for fuck's sake.

But he didn't _know, _and that ate at him. He could do nothing, say nothing, until he knew whether the beta-blast had got him or if the interference field had. All he could do was sit and wait.

A collectively anxious group, Han, Chewie and Leia held their breath. Watching for flickers on the instrumentation, a hum from the engines, _anything _to signal that the _Falcon _would rev to life as the _Intruder _had the day before. The waiting was interminable, endless.

Han's heart pounded in his chest like a doomsday drum.

_C'mon, baby, _Han thought, lost in the darkness. _Come back to me._

Counting up the time until they knew the result of their gambit brought a new use for his internal clock. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. They ticked by in razor-sharp clicks_, _almost worse than the subtle notes of the countdown for _Home One_'s jump.

A minute.

No bright blue light of a tractor beam. No light at all. Just terrifying, soul-crushing blackness outside the viewport as the _Falcon _tumbled in a lifeless, lazy spin.

A minute and ten seconds. How long had Salla been down? A minute? Two?

"Is Luke talking?" he asked Chewie, desperate to fill the quiet. Luke had come in handy with his mumbo-jumbo and he'd been the one to suggest the cloud in the first place. Surely he had some wisdom _now, _when it was so desperately needed—

_No._

A minute and twenty seconds.

Han turned to Leia. "Do you… can you tell? Was Vader disabled by the cloud, too?"

That was the other pressing question. If Han's gambit had worked, then Vader would have hit the cloud just milliseconds after the _Falcon _had. Out of sheer stubbornness and ingenuity, Han and Chewie had been working on the _Falcon_'s cold-start engines for years now, tuning and updating and creating a system that could roar to life quicker than any model on the market. The few seconds head-start would give them the advantage; if Vader had hit the cloud after them, they could cold-start and jump before the bastard even knew what was happening.

But that was a lot of _ifs. _

Leia didn't answer him. Her eyes were far away, focused but somehow not available to him, her mind light-years away.

One minute and thirty seconds and _nothing._

Chewie growled low in his throat, concerned, and Han nodded, unsure he could trust himself to say anything. It suddenly felt like they were absolutely alone, the pilot and the copilot of the _Millennium Falcon _vulnerable and so godlessly _alone_ that they could very well perish out here. Luke wasn't talking. _Leia_ wasn't talking.

A minute and forty-five seconds and he started to despair. They were waiting on the _Executor _to find them. Would they kill him and Chewie on the spot before taking Luke and Leia? Would they be captured, too, interrogated for information? He knew what interrogation looked like, had seen the scars on Leia's skin from her time as Vader's prisoner on the Death Star.

Two minutes.

Two minutes and fifteen seconds.

Two minutes and thirty seconds.

_This is it, _he thought. _This is how it ends._

Leia exhaled in a rush, piercing the silence like blaster whine. "Han," she said and he turned to her with defeated eyes, unsure if he had anything left to give her. What could he say now, when everything was hopeless? Three minutes and the _Falcon _had not restarted. It was like sitting in one's own coffin.

_I'm sorry, _he wanted to say. _I'm sorry I took us out here. I'm sorry we didn't have more time_—

"Get ready," Leia said.

Han opened his mouth, her words unexpected and inexplicable, but was silenced by a very small, very quiet _beep._

He twisted to scan his console, his breath leaving him. That sounded like … it _might _have been the—

One lone, blinking red light under the heading of _Quick-Start Engines. _In the dark, in the nothingness, it was like pressure in vacuum. A life-line. It blinked twice, three times, and Han's jaw clenched in desperate, ringing hope.

Three minutes and fifteen seconds since they'd lost power, since that red light disappeared with the rest of them, since the cockpit had been drowned in darkness.

Han waited. A breath. Two. Barely able to contain the frantic rhythm of his heart.

With a whine and an explosion of color, the console flickered to life. Reds and blues appeared around him like fireworks, like the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. A low whine, getting louder, loud enough to feel. A cough of engines and then the beautiful, beautiful, _beautiful _feeling of thrusters, compensators, the yoke resurrected like the old Corellian myth of Ignok the Terrible...

His hands were a blur. He didn't know what he was saying, or even if he was saying anything at all, but he was drowning in sensation, in sights and sounds that he couldn't take in. He engaged the thrusters and they hummed, they danced, they responded like skin to his touch. He heard Chewie roaring in triumph but he didn't have space to understand Shyriiwook at the moment, heard Leia's heavy breathing but that was too much, too.

Three minutes and twenty seconds after they had been suddenly jerked to a stop, the sublights kicked in and the _Falcon _sped out of the cloud. She was rough to handle, clearly still asleep in some vital areas, but she was trying, she was moving, she was lit up like life itself and he had never been more grateful.

He jerked the yoke around in a wide vector away from the cloud. His scanners were still struggling to come online, so he looped around to check the _Falcon_'s former coordinates. There, tumbling and adrift, was a lone TIE, only illuminated by the _Falcon_'s distance lights. Nothing shone back at Han.

"He's fried," Han murmured.

Leia reached through the space between Han and Chewie's seats, toggled the sluggish comm. "_Millennium Falcon _to Green Two, Rogue Two. Do you copy?"

Static answered her and Han took that as all the confirmation he needed.

"_Millennium Falcon _to _Home One, _do you copy?"

More static. Han blew out his breath and gunned the _Falcon_'s accelerator like a madman, putting distance between the cloud and the _Executor _with spectacular speed.

They hit open space and Han's hand was on the hyperdrive lever within seconds. With a tight fist he pulled it towards himself, waiting with bated breath for the pinprick beauty of the starfield to turn into sharp lines of distorted light. Once more, he was thrown into his seat as the _Falcon _hurtled through time and space, as the Empire was left behind, as the hopelessness bled from him in giant, rolling gasps...

And then Han finally, _finally, _took a deep breath.

* * *

_Author's Note: this one goes out to the anonymous reviewers, the people who are nameless but who I _know _just as assuredly as anyone else. I wish I could PM you individually because there is so much gratitude I have for your kind reviews and I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart. But as anonymity is priceless, too, I'll respect you enough to simply say _thank you.

_And then, too, thank you to _**AmongstEmeraldClouds, **_who is my partner in this endeavor and helps to shape each and every chapter to its gleaming professionalism. Thank you so much!_

_Chapter 7 will be posted Wednesday, April 1st! Be well and wash your hands! -KR_


	7. Alone

_Alone_

* * *

The fear had been a harrowing wave, triggered by the pull of the hyperdrive lever, the jerk and twist that signaled the jump was successful. In the moment before, Han had felt ready and confident, mechanical almost, the hopelessness banished against the surety of a chance of escape. A plan. Hands flying across the console, system checks, life support tests. The engines were fine, the hyperdrive held tight with only a brief hiccup, but that was a worry for another time. Another day.

And then they were safe and the fear returned like the bursting of a dam. It flowed through every nerve, rampant in his chest and extremities like an overburdened river, soaking everything in sight, overwhelming levees and dikes with all the force of its natural, destructive energy. Nothing held against it. _Leia, _it shouted.

He forced himself to look at Chewie, nodding a thanks for all the Wookiee had done. "Luke," he said, because the kid was important, too, but Han just didn't have the energy for him at the moment.

_I will check on him, _Chewie growled. _Are you alright?_

He didn't answer but turned to Leia instead, found her quiet and small in the seat behind Chewie. He held her eyes and nodded to the hatch, indicating what he wanted. She stood.

"Thank you, Chewie," she said, soft and low.

Han walked her to the cabin, following her small body through the ring corridor, thinking his heart might jump out of his chest if he let it. Strict control over his emotions was not something for which he was well known. He lived and died by those instincts, the dark delight of thwarting fate in the wilderness of space.

But he couldn't do that here. He needed answers and he needed them _now._

She sat on the bunk in the captain's cabin; he stood in front of her, running a medscan with hands that shook and lips that twitched downwards. Wordless, the pair of them. There wasn't anything to say yet. They'd survived but only just, and it felt like they couldn't quite communicate until he saw it in clear medical script. He'd demand to know how she felt; she'd say she was fine. There was no space in him for a fight.

The medscanner hummed in his hands and Han watched the lovely woman in front of him, cataloguing the warming pallor of her face, her steady hands folded in her lap, her eyes clear as daylight on Tatooine. When it beeped its result he was unsurprised to see her vitals in the healthy range for a human woman of her age and size.

He could ask how she felt. He _could. _But it wouldn't inform him the way it would with anyone else. So he cut straight to the matter at hand.

"He lured you out there."

She pressed her lips together and nodded.

Tossing the medscanner to the bunk behind her, he crouched to be at eye-level. "_How?_"

Her eyes reminded him of the return trip from Nar Shaddaa, the strength inherent in them but also filled with a deep concern. Leia swore to him that his eyes changed color but hers changed in scope. She saw the universe with hopeful optimism. And then, too, she saw it for all its awesome horror.

"Luke and I have been having dreams," she finally said. "Very similar dreams."

He swallowed but didn't push her.

"In my dream I'm falling. I can't find you or Luke or Chewie but I can hear a voice telling me that he has you."

"_Who_ has me?"

"I don't know."

"Is it Vader's voice?"

She shook her head. "I've never heard it before."

He dropped his eyes, blinking at her midsection without really seeing her. In his world, dreams didn't mean shit. He had no protocol for how to deal with something like that.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Leia swallowed. The vastness in her eyes narrowed into one soft look at him. Usually when she looked at him like that—when the starfield in her gaze focused on him—he felt powerful, like he could do anything. Right now it felt hollow.

"I thought they were just dreams," she whispered.

_They aren't just dreams if Luke is having them, too, _he almost said, but accusations weren't going to do any good right now. There were more important things to talk about.

"What about this morning? What happened?"

"I had the dream again but this time I couldn't wake up. I was falling and falling and falling. Even when I knew I was awake, I was still falling."

"_Leia." _He put his hands on her thighs, trying to bridge the distance, to shrink the scope of her eyes back down to just him, only him. "Did you know he was out there?"

She inhaled and when she spoke, her voice cracked. "I thought… I thought I was keeping you safe. I felt better the more we moved."

"You weren't _trying _to go to him?"

Her demeanor changed drastically, the fall of the shock spurning her into anger. "Of course not."

He hated that he'd felt he had to ask, but he _did. _He trusted Leia with everything he had, he would do anything she asked of him. But he didn't trust this Force business. He didn't understand it, couldn't comprehend how it affected Luke and Leia with such violence. Dreams, sure. Dreams didn't make a whole lot of sense in the first place.

But what had awoken him this morning? And what Luke was feeling on the boarding ramp? _That _he didn't understand.

"This ain't my wheelhouse, Sweetheart. I don't know what's going on."

"Do you think I would ever… _could ever_..? Han, _no."_

"We wound up in a fucking _disaster _out there," he said, keeping his voice low. "And I just want to know why."

The anger seemed to leave her then, swift and fleeting. "I would never hurt you. Not intentionally," she murmured and her eyes were like suns to him, molten and bright. "_Never_."

He squeezed her thighs. "I know," he whispered, trying for reassurance. "But you still took us out there. And if _I'm _wondering why, so will High Command."

Her anger extinguished like a starved flame, slow and resistant. When it was gone, her shoulders hunched and she put her head in her hands. "I'm sorry, Han. I'm so sorry. I just wanted you safe."

Han's chest cracked wide open at the helplessness in her tone, at the anxiety and the self-recrimination. Wrapping her small body in his, he surrounded her with the force of his need to protect her. "_Don't apologize_," he murmured into her hair, her ear, her forehead, anywhere his lips could reach. "That's not why I'm asking."

She shook her head but didn't push against his ardant embrace. "I couldn't, I _couldn't _give you up, I thought I was helping—"

Han held her as the proximity alarms announced they were ten minutes from reversion from hyperspace. He held her as Chewie roared for him to join him in the cockpit. He held her because he was so grateful for their survival and because he wasn't sure what he could do to help when there wasn't an enemy around to shoot.

"Conversation is _not over,_" he growled into her lips. "You and me, we're a team."

Leia's eyes fell to her lap, nervous tension in her shoulders. "If you don't understand, _they _won't," she said. "I don't know what they are going to say."

He wasn't sure if she meant her Jedi voodoo, their relationship, or something else. Those eyes of hers were awfully expansive and he felt like a pion next to the weight of her stare.

"_Hey,_" he said. "It'll be alright."

Han mustered a smile but he wasn't sure if it took any of that weight from her eyes when he left her to bring them out of hyperspace.

—0—

Deep in the nothing that was the Anoat system, _Home One _sat listless and unmoving as it awaited the rest of her contractors and commissioned fleet. For the past twelve hours ships had been slowly arriving from the other side of the galaxy, from Zone 266 and the narrow escape from Vader's clutches.

_Narrow_ was putting it mildly, Leia thought. It was a miracle any of them had survived, much less _all of them. _Wedge and Salla and the _Falcon, _too? Not a single Alliance casualty in an engagement with the _Executor; _that was suspiciously good fortune.

She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned into the pillows at her back, sweeping her eyes over the sterile, blinding white of the medbay hulls. It felt too stark in here, too controlled. The incongruity of it annoyed her; _Home One _was a veritable disaster, a barely-controlled cesspool of activity and military discipline. The fleet was cobbled together by spare parts and stolen defense systems, they weren't even eating real food anymore, and the water was recycled through the purification systems so often that it tasted like old paint.

And yet Medical gleamed.

She could imagine the chaos humming in the halls outside those thin, sterile walls_. _High Command had to be in total disarray. She hadn't even seen Carlist yet. The first thing she would have done—had she been in charge and not confined here—would be to order a series of debriefs. But no one had come for her. So either High Command was not functioning properly or they were still pulling together whatever facts they could find by data alone.

To them the question was real and haunting: _what the hell had happened?_

She felt an anxious, tenebrous energy aflutter through her veins. She wanted to escape her current medbay prison, wanted to run to High Command and think of an explanation for her actions. How it had been a rational decision to wake everyone up to fight a battle no one had anticipated just as the enemy had shown themselves. And the fact that the battle had consisted of three Alliance ships and three Imperial TIEs, inexplicable by even the most outrageous reasoning… It defied logic. It made no sense. Why hadn't the _Executor _deployed any reinforcements? Why had they used beta-blasts and not the usual lasers? And how had Commander Solo, of all people, managed to survive a rematch against Darth Vader?

She'd put them all in danger by withholding that information.

The energy turned sour in her stomach, rotting in her chest. There was no way to spin it, no way to resuscitate her reputation. If everyone didn't already know by now, they shortly would.

Frustration turned into anger, as it so often did, and it crept up, up, _up_, bitter on her tongue; she wanted to scream at her invisible captors, how unfair it all was, how she hadn't asked for any of this. How she would rather pretend she didn't have these feelings. She didn't _want _them, anyway. All she wanted was to go back. Back to work. Back to a more comfortable reality.

She felt listless and manic, jittery but in a new, disconcerting way. Her anger and her fear rolled into one awful feeling that she didn't like at all. Where was her mental clarity now? Where was her calm, her level-headedness? All she felt was suspicion. And she didn't like feeling that way among her peers in the Alliance, didn't like the distrust she could sense in the air around her. It felt too similar to the histrionics and conspiracies of the Imperial Senate.

But... well. They'd put her in here. How else was she supposed to take it? Her and Luke, held in the medbay without their consent?

She rolled her eyes. If the situation were reversed, she would have likely done the same thing for the person's safety. If it had been _Han _who had gone into severe shock, if it had been _Han _who had barely contributed to a skirmish with the Empire, had heralded the attack with a spectacular emotional display for pilots and mechanics alike to see, she might have insisted on some tests at the very least. And they'd ran their tests: hundreds of them, it had felt like.

She tilted her chin to the ceiling, eyed the smooth hull above her as she wrangled with her own distrust. If it were Han in this position, she would have strapped him to the gurney herself in the honest belief that he needed to be there for his own safety. She would have been desperate to make sure he was in his right mind, and if not, she would have moved mountains to help him get back to himself. Knowing Han's particularities when it came to the Force, the extraordinary way he rallied to support her even against his better nature...

No, she couldn't blame anyone for her current circumstances other than Vader and the outrageous galactic irony that had made her Force-sensitive in an era of Jedi famine. More than anything, she wanted to talk to her mother, wanted to ask her father questions. Had they known? She'd been born at the height of the purges; it wasn't out of the realm of possibility that Bail and Breha Organa had knowingly sheltered and raised a Force-sensitive child under the noses of both the Emperor and Vader. It was, in fact, very characteristic of them to quietly rebel in honor of life and freedom.

But then why the secrecy? Why not tell her when she was old enough to understand? She'd been a teenaged spy in the Senate; surely by then she had been trustworthy enough to confide in about her true heritage, whatever that might be.

Her brain circled and circled, questions abound with no hope of an answer. She felt like a storm, like a hurricane of thoughts and emotions. And she felt a tiny line of self-hatred that turned to mist when she stared at it too long. A distrust in Luke that wilted under her stare. A sense of unbridled anger at Han, but what had Han done but sit in a chair next to her medbunk and show her such support it made her a little misty-eyed? He had been the absolute hero of the battle after all, and they'd only just taken him for an official debrief because he'd refused again and again to leave her side—

"Leia?"

She closed her eyes, gave herself a moment to school her features before she turned to her visitor. All her feelings fell away, the ice-cold mask of composure settling over her features like a thin dusting of snow.

Luke wore an identical medcenter gown to her own. He was standing hesitantly in the doorway, one hand on the open hatch frame and the other scratching the blonde mess on top of his head. His eyes looked darker than their usual striking blue, deeper-set: evidence of his own worry. He wore his old leggings from Tatooine under the gown—ragged, patched and frayed—and the sight of his bare feet on the deck-plates tempted her smile.

But when she found his eyes again, her mirth disappeared.

"Luke," she said, watching one of her closest friends eye her with wariness.

What a feeling that was, to feel unsure about the mood of someone who was more like family than friend to her. She had lied to him. _Spectacularly._ Often. He had every right to look unsure.

Leia's heart struck a beat against her ribcage that radiated a pang of guilt so clearly she was afraid Luke could hear it.

He pressed his lips together and seemed to gather his wits about him. "Can we talk?"

"Come in."

Luke nodded and padded over to the uncomfortable chair near her bed. Han had spent hours in that chair, driving her crazy with his constant vigilance, and in some ways, she wished he was here for the conversation she assumed she was about to have. His steadfastness and stubbornness would be helpful, would remind her to step outside of her own defensiveness and communicate rather than shut down.

On the other hand, it had been _her_ decision to avoid the topic of the Force with Luke. What could Han say that she couldn't say herself? What wasn't already quite obvious to Luke now, after the latest fight with Vader?

Luke sat with a little groan, brushed his right hand over his temple. "This headache is going to kill me."

"Headache?"

"I think it's an echo," he said. "Like an echo in the Force?"

Leia tried a small smile. "Are you _asking_ me or _telling _me?"

A common refrain. Luke had a habit of qualifying his uncertainties with question marks when he was nervous. His little ticks always made Leia smile, made her feel fond and protective of him because he reminded her so much of a normal person, free from the burden of constant public speaking and the need to remain impartial about everything.

But Luke was having none of it.

"Now that I know you might be feeling it, too? Yeah. I'm _asking_ you."

She shifted, uncomfortable despite already knowing what the tenor of this conversation was going to be. Luke must have figured out what happened this morning, must have realized why Leia had sounded the alarm, why she was now locked in the medcenter with him.

They hadn't talked. The last she'd seen of him, Luke had been rushed out of the _Falcon _on a hover-gurney, Chewie by his side, speeding through the docking bay of _Home One _to the startled and worried stares of some of his pilots. She'd heard from Han that Luke had lost consciousness just after Wedge, Salla and the _Falcon _had gone to lightspeed, narrowly escaping the last of Vader's beta-blasts. They'd tried the same mode of transportation for Leia, but she'd flatly refused, insisting on walking to the medcenter on her own power, though she had leaned into Han's side to avoid him insisting he carry her.

Han had told her Luke's vitals were stable and that he'd regained consciousness just a few minutes after arriving in the _Home One _medcenter. He'd been exhausted and treated for minor dehydration and electrolyte imbalances, then rested most of the afternoon.

Leia hadn't slept a wink. She had accepted similar hydration and electrolyte drips and a blood-draw to check for infection but nothing more. She'd felt too anxious to rest. They had locked her in here and denied her request to rest in her quarters, and then, to add insult to injury, they'd fast-tracked Han's interrogation and left her alone to ruminate by herself.

She looked at Luke, trying to summon her feelings and gathering the courage to answer the question he was asking.

"I don't feel any echo," she said, deciding she had no other recourse but the truth. "But I felt the original. And the one the night before."

A long quiet descended, not uncomfortable but not particularly comforting either. It felt like a shifting, an alteration in the fabric of the universe. What had been an assumed fact—that Luke Skywalker was the last pure Force-sensitive being alive—was no longer true, and the repercussions of that new reality were staggering for both of them.

Luke pressed his lips together and nodded, eyes still troubled. "You felt him?"

She sat quietly, rested her hands in her lap.

"How long have you known?" he continued.

"Does it matter?" she snapped.

Oh, that was far too telling a response. Anger? At Luke? The gentle soul who deserved exactly _none _of her ire? Leia silently reprimanded herself, forcing her face to resume the cool mask of indifference. Safer. More in line with her station. The last thing this conversation needed was emotional outbursts.

She looked at Luke. His sagging posture, the frailty in his eyes defeated her. Her instinct to protect him swelled to life and she found herself answering him—truly answering him—for the first time in months.

"We figured it out on Nar Shaddaa."

_I think you're like Luke. _Han's voice, deep and soothing. _I think you're a Jedi._

That moment felt like years ago, a time when she was unsure of her relationship with Han, when she had buzzed with memories she'd never had, like Han had picked a lock in her brain. Like she'd been looking at herself through water, wavy and distorted, until the moment when the word had rung like a bell.

_A Jedi. _Or Force-sensitive, at least. Freakish powers she didn't want and a layer of distrust over everything she did. No one wanted a Jedi to lead them. No one wanted a Jedi to be at the forefront of this war. The only reason Luke managed it with half the grace he did was because Luke was an orphan, was without a master. He was like a devenomized water-snake; he couldn't do anything as he was and he represented a nobler time.

But two of them? _No. _That was a conspiracy.

"Nar Shaddaa," he repeated. "You knew _months ago?"_

"I—" she drifted off, unable to defend herself. What _could _she say? That she was paralyzed by fear? That she worried about her peers, about Han, about the rank-and-file? That she was already so different from everyone else that she could barely tolerate it, much less now with this new angle?

And where did it come from, this power? That was the thought that had truly plagued her. _Where did it come from?_

"I was scared. I _am _scared. I have no idea what this means."

Luke's eyes were like water, soft and still. "It means we aren't alone. It means _I'm _not alone."

She stared at him, dumbfounded. "It _absolutely_ means we're alone," she said.

"But what if we aren't?" he asked. "If I survived the Purge and you survived the Purge, maybe there are more of us. Maybe the Jedi Order can be rebuilt. Maybe we can defeat the Emperor without losing everything?"

"Luke—"

"Wouldn't it be worth it?" he continued speaking fast, heedless, excited. "Wouldn't it be a _good _thing? This galaxy could be so much better. People could be free. Isn't it worth it to you to _try?_"

An image, unbidden. A glowing city, bursting with light. A temple of ancient stone in the middle of a bustling metropolis, a testament to culture and tradition. An order of people, robed and noble, ready to defend the light with their lives, if need be.

"That is what the Alliance is doing," she said, the image dissipating like smoke.

Luke nodded. "Yeah, but we could do it so much faster—"

"The Jedi existed to protect the Old Republic," she interrupted him. "And it still fell."

"Because the Emperor hunted them down!" Luke's voice rose in volume and pitch, desperate. "He targeted them because they _could _stop him!"

"And they had been trained from birth to defend it," she replied. "Who is going to train us, now that General Kenobi is dead?"

Luke opened his mouth, shut it a few seconds later.

"There is no great Order, Luke. _There is no one else_. We are alone and we are vulnerable."

Sinking, desperate fear. The crux of all her trepidation, all the plaguing torrents of anxiety since Han had said those fateful words, since he'd picked that lock. Leia was alone in everything, an orphan, too, like Luke, but without even the comfort of an existing homeworld. She had no people, had no culture, had _no one _except Luke and Han and Chewie. No one to stem the power, no one to teach her how to wield it.

Alone. Utterly alone.

At least in the Alliance she had someone to lead, a short-scale placebo for her chronic desire to champion the rights of a people. She'd been bred for it, could not remember a time when she hadn't worked for the good of a larger group of beings. To lose that would be… would be…

Leia Organa would not survive that.

"The Force can do amazing things," he tried again. "It helped me at Yavin."

"Because of Obi-Wan! Because he spoke to you!"

Finally a spark in those beautiful blue eyes. "Yes! He was there! He helped!"

Leia shook her head. "Where has he been in the past two years, Luke? Where is he?"

He grew quiet, then shifted uncomfortably.

"We have this power and no one to train us. And we are vulnerable without training. He found us _because _of what we are," she said and then paused, centering her focus squarely on him. "We brought him to us."

Months of worry that she had accidentally tripped into her last days, that her life was narrowing into one dark, bloody end. Everything she fought for, sacrificed for, was in danger because of a demon who wanted her dead not just because of the war she waged against him, _but on principle. _This power, untrained and unruly, would be her end, and even worse, it would be the end of the galaxy's only hope for a better future, too.

"He found us, yes," Luke said. "But we also heard him coming. Leia, we saved everyone today."

"They wouldn't have been in danger in the first place if we hadn't been here."

Luke scoffed, and the sound was more Leia than Luke in that moment. "You don't know that."

"Yes, I do—"

"No, you _don't._ We stumbled over an Imperial probe yesterday. We should have started evacuation the second we saw its manufacturing stamp. Some stupid High Command bull, I bet."

She winced, but didn't respond.

"And if the Force hadn't warned us, he would have ambushed the fleet. We would have been lucky to have _any _survivors, much less the entire group! We were an asset today, not a liability. We were the reason everyone's alive. Why don't you feel happy about it?"

Leia tried to hold it in, tried to spare Luke the full weight on her shoulders. But she couldn't. The words tumbled from her like a morbid song, lightless and twisted. "He _allowed _us to be warned, Luke. He wanted us out there. He lured us."

Luke opened his mouth to interrupt, but she held up her hands.

"Han says the TIEs were using something called _beta-blasts, _a pirate strategy to capture vessels in space. Vader wanted you and me out there so he could capture us."

"That's not—"

"Yes, it is," she said. "It is our fault that he came at all."

A slow silence descended like tar, mucking up the connection between them. Luke's light seemed to fade and that made her feel awful, made her feel like a destructor instead of a constructor. Why did she feel the need to tear him down like this? Even in their worst moments, she hadn't actively sought to hurt Han. And here she was, deliberately hurting Luke?

"I don't understand why you hid it from me, Leia," he said, deep and hushed. "When I've been the only one for almost _two years._ When we could have been doing this together."

"It has nothing to do with you_,_" she whispered in her defense, a murmur in the face of Luke's loud truths.

"When I was telling you about my dream in the training room?" he prompted. "You knew then."

She didn't answer. Couldn't.

Luke pursed his lips and nodded, eyes falling to the deckplates of the medbay beneath them. "Okay, then," he said. "You come talk when you're ready."

He turned, the set of his shoulders low and heavy. Leia's heart twisted again to look at him, at the dejection he so obviously felt, but she couldn't think of anything to say that was the gods-honest truth. She _had _known and she _hadn't _considered his feelings at all.

As Luke left her room, Leia sighed and curled up. Bringing her knees to her chest and tucking her head down, she was unable to watch him leave with such sadness.

_Alone, _she thought.

_Even when I try to keep them with me, I always wind up alone._

—0—

"Commander _Solo._"

Han jumped, startled from his impromptu nap in the small interrogation room he'd been led to a half hour ago. He'd been left alone too long, nodding off as he leaned his chin in his right hand on the bare table in front of him. He'd had little sleep in the past day, rudely awoken by Darth Fucking Vader and then camped out by Leia's medbunk to keep an eye on her. Couldn't blame a guy for catching some shut-eye.

Leia had been a mess, stuck in her own head and not particularly communicative. Han hadn't pushed her, relieved she was talking at all, but he could tell she had rolled herself into a tight ball of worry. Still her vitals had been good and she was conscious, more herself than she'd been the morning before, and so he'd tucked his concerns in his pocket and saved them for another day.

And she'd been in better shape than Luke had been, though that wasn't saying much. Luke had been freakishly pale and unmoving when they'd taken him from the _Falcon, _and Han had given the medcenter staff clear orders to update him on the regular as he sat with Leia. The kid seemed to perk up the minute they started treatment on him.

Once he had been sure Luke was in good hands, he'd enlisted Chewie to help Salla track the Mercs as they staggered in from their random routes to the rendezvous point. That meant he'd been able to spend almost the whole day in the medbay with Leia, standing between her and any and all Alliance personnel like a drogan standing over his hoarded gold.

A whole day spent getting no sleep and trying to keep Leia from freaking the fuck out, that is.

Han focused on the asshole in front of him, unsurprised to see Jan Dodonna conducting his interview. He had suspicions about who was going to be in charge of the Alliance after the events of the morning, since he had assumed Rieekan and Ackbar were tracking the arrival of the Fleet and setting up a plan for settling Echo Base.

"General _Dodonna,_" he mimicked in the general's annoyed tone.

"Can I trust you to remain awake during your interview?" Dodonna asked.

"Suppose it depends on how long it takes."

Dodonna hummed and shuffled his stack of flimsies on the table in front of him. "Funny. I should think an Alliance commander would _want_ to inform his superior officers of the events of the past fourteen hours."

Han clasped his hands. "You aren't my superior officer."

"I am a member of High Command. I am everyone's superior officer."

Han tried very hard not to laugh. Dodonna was posturing, clearly trying to assert authority, and while many of his compatriots might have quailed in front of ol' Dodders, Han only saw insecurity. It was what he respected about Leia and Rieekan: real important people didn't need to tell everyone that they were important.

"Where's Rieekan?" Han asked. "Thought he'd be doing the honors."

"General Rieekan is being debriefed by another member of High Command. We have questions about his conduct, too."

Han nodded, his suspicions confirmed. "So you and Ackbar are in charge now."

Dodonna's wintry eyebrows furrowed. "How do you mean?"

"Ackbar's interrogating Rieekan because he… what? Listened to his junior officers and made a good decision to order the evac?"

"Not an interrogation_. _A _debriefing._"

"And since Leia and Mon Mothma are out of the picture at the moment, you and Ackbar are the ones doing the interrogations—"

"_Debriefings._"

"—so you guys are the ones who get to decide who was right and who was wrong. That puts you in charge."

Han sat back and tapped his clasped hands on the table twice, proud of the shocked look on Dodonna's wrinkled, ancient face. The constant joy he took from flustering the general was reward enough for whatever bullshit he was about to have spouted at him.

And it would be bullshit, of that Han was certain. The circumstances preceding the evacuation had been so muddled and mysterious that it would be easy enough for these two puffed-up morons to twist the facts to blame Rieekan, or Han, or Luke, or even Leia. The truth was a terrifying combination of a lot of factors.

For Han, though, there was only one definitive pathway forward. He would not spill Leia's secret. He was of the opinion that she should've told a few people the truth long before now—Luke and Rieekan, for sure—but it wasn't _his_ secret to tell. And he'd be damned if fucking _Dodonna _was gonna be the first to know.

"Nothing could be farther from the truth, Commander," Dodonna was saying. "There are real questions about the security of our fleet during the evacuation."

"Like what?"

"Like why there was an evacuation in the first place," the general answered. "Lives could've been lost with a sloppy evacuation like the one you bungled. And the last thing we need now are casualties in a battle we didn't know was happening."

"Sure," Han said, nodding genially before his voice turned falsely mournful. "We lost so many people."

Dodonna's lips became one thin, bloodless line. If he didn't know better, Han would have sworn he was looking at the face of the D'uoth Demon, a street-urchin tall tale on Corellia. The Demon had terrified most of the kids he had known; Han had found it kind of funny.

"Cost is not always measured in casualties," the general bit out. "How did you know the _Executor_ was in the system?"

Han shrugged. "A hunch."

"A hunch."

"Yeah, a hunch," he repeated. "Something about the probe didn't feel right. Woke me up out of a sound sleep. I grabbed Antilles and we went to do a survey sweep."

"Why Antilles?"

Han leaned over, put his chin in his hand in a coquettish manner. "Because Antilles had left the party in the port bay and was the most sober out of anyone I saw."

Dodonna's eyes narrowed. "And if I ask Antilles about this so-called survey sweep? He will corroborate your story?"

Han nodded, though he kicked himself for not reaching out to Wedge earlier to get their stories straight. He probably should have thought of that while he waited for Luke and Leia to get checked out in Medical.

"Yup," he lied. "Ask him."

Dodonna nodded, suspicion everywhere in the set of his shoulders, the long sweep of his nose and the restless movement of his hands. "Don't worry, Commander. I will."

Han spread his hands in an obnoxious display of cockiness. "Great. Can I go to sleep now?"

"One more thing," Dodonna said. "I have a report from Ensign Inding I wanted to confirm with you." Dodonna turned to a piece of flimsy in the middle of his stack, flipped it to face Han with a kind of controlled, vicious glee. "Inding was in the starboard docking bay when you arrived at the _Millennium Falcon _early this morning. She reports that you came running in, dragging Princess Leia along as if she was drugged or otherwise impaired."

Han's brain couldn't register that word. "_Drugged?_"

"Yes," Dodonna said. "Inding claims the princess was crying, shaking, clearly in distress."

A flame sparked in Han's chest, the beginnings of real anger, _true anger, _among the shock of Dodonna's almost-accusation. "She wasn't _distressed._"

"Reports from Antilles also back up her allegations," Doddona said, narrow-eyed and with a papery smile.

_So he _has _spoken with Wedge, _Han thought. "You're out of your damned mind if you think I would do anything so fucking—"

"Language, Solo."

"—stupid to _anyone, _much less _Leia. _Are you _kidding me?"_

The general leaned forward. "I'm inclined to believe Inding's report unless you can offer me a convincing reason not to?"

Outrage unfurled in Han's blood, the deafening sound of his own anger filling his ears. They believed _he'd drugged her? _That he would harm a hair on that woman's head—any woman, in point of fact, but _particularly _the person he loved—was ludicrous.

"I don't drug people," he bit out.

"Inding's report says otherwise."

"Inding doesn't know what the hell she's talking about," Han protested. "I'd rather jump in front of a blaster rifle than hurt Leia."

"_Princess _Leia," Dodonna softly reprimanded, and something about his tone inflamed Han, the presupposition that Han was taking liberties with titles. The general didn't know the extent of Han's relationship with Leia, at least Han didn't think he did, but even before the radical shift in their sometimes-friendship, he'd done _nothing _to deserve to be treated like a monster. Mercenary, sure; Han would deal with Dodonna's elitist bullshit as it came, but not… not _this. _

"Ask her," Han urged. "Ask Leia before you go accusing people of shit like that. I would _never_ do that to her."

Dodonna didn't respond, just stared placidly at Han as if he already knew the truth and was waiting for confirmation.

Han eyed him for a moment, then dropped his eyes to the report in his hands, figuring he might as well read what was in it so he could stamp out the smug expression on Dodonna's face. It was a damn sight better than shooting him, Han reasoned.

The report was a short document, only a few hundred words, but it detailed with excruciating precision the scene in the docking bay, replete with Chewie tending to an unconscious Luke on the _Falcon_'s ramp and Han and Leia's dramatic arrival. The report focused on Leia, since Inding seemed to have concluded Luke's condition was the result of intoxication.

_Princess Leia Organa appeared distressed and incapable of supporting herself on her own power. She was wearing one of Commander Solo's shirts and pleaded with him many times as they travelled through the docking bay. _

Han distinctly remembered the keening, Leia's soft, troubled words, as they'd rushed to the docking bay. _Please, please, please, _she'd said. _We need to go, we need to go..._

"I wouldn't do this," Han said after he'd read the report through twice. His voice sounded rough even to his own ears. Hoarse.

"So Her Highness _wasn't _incapacitated prior to the evacuation?"

Han worked very hard to keep his features calm. He had considered this question in the medbay, and had come up with enough of a reply to stave off basic questioning.

"Leia called me to her quarters. She was having one of her reactions, you know, from the interrogation drugs on the Death Star. So I took her with me to get help."

It was a feeble explanation but it was all he could offer. Every now and then, Leia _did _have residual chemical reactions from the drugs Vader had used on her, but none that looked anything like what had awoken her the night before. And it wouldn't hold up against someone claiming he'd fucking drugged the woman he practically worshipped.

Dodonna sifted through his stack of flimsies again. "Her bloodwork didn't come back with chemical markers of any such reaction."

"Did her bloodwork say she'd been drugged?"

The general pursed his lips. "I understand such chemicals are often engineered to metabolize quickly. Perhaps we didn't get her sample fast enough."

Han's anger flared again, white and hot. "And why did they give you her medical reports in the first place_? _That's private."

"I'm conducting debriefings. I need such information."

"Both of 'em?" Han asked, fury dripping from his tone, because he knew Leia's system would be drug-free. Luke's though… he'd been at the party. There was a good chance his bloodwork might show some intoxication, though that wasn't the source of the confusion in the loading dock, nor the strangeness of Han's movements against the _Executor_.

He had a striking, awful thought then, invading and horrible.

Could a blood test reveal Force-sensitivity?

The report from Inding didn't explain why Luke was in a similar state to Leia's. It didn't explain anything about the evacuation or the reason for Vader's attack. It didn't explain most of what had happened. Han had already assumed Leia would have to divulge her secrets to High Command after this, but it was looking like the time was coming faster than he'd thought.

And if they could figure it out by a lab test…

His chest squeezed tight, kicking himself for saying anything about it. _Shit shit shit._

Dodonna blinked. "Is there a reason I should look at Commander Skywalker's medical report?"

Han didn't move a muscle, sick with fear and anger at himself. "No."

The general stared at him, eyes calculating and sharp, and Han's stomach dropped. For a brief moment he considered escape, considered blasting Dodonna right then and there. But he couldn't do that and remain with the Alliance, remain with Leia, fight the fight he knew was coming when Vader found them again. He needed to lead the Mercs. Needed to do what was right.

"Langrog?" Dodonna called. The room's only hatch opened and in walked a tall, solidly-built human male. "Escort Commander Solo to the brigg for detainment until further notice."

"You're making a mistake, Jan," Han said, holding onto his composure by a thread. "I didn't do anything."

Dodonna smiled, hard and awful. "I believe the mistake was made when we offered you a commission. Be grateful you aren't leaving here in stun-cuffs."

Han swallowed hard. Glancing at the guard, he decided he had better let Leia fight this battle herself. And if he blasted either of these smug pricks, she wouldn't be able to do a damn thing to help.

"_Fuck you,_" he said and stood up, walking toward the guard with all the anger he felt in his bones.

* * *

_Author's Note: I hope April finds you all safe and healthy. I know many of you (like me) use fanfiction for escapism, and we desperately need some escapism right now. As such, I am staunchly trying to maintain my posting schedule. Fair warning: I work in healthcare and will do everything in my power to get a new chapter to you on May 1st. That's my plan. _

_But my first priority will be my hospital and its caregivers and patients. And if things turn dire in my neck of the woods, I will respond to your reviews to the April chapter to let you know if a May 1st update will be postponed. I can't figure out how else to let all readers know, particularly my beloved anons, but I'll do what I can. Chapter 8 is written as of right now; __**AmongstEmeraldClouds **__and I will be in close communication to get it posted on time. But I wanted to make sure all readers took the May update with some grace and flexibility._

_Thanks once again to my editor extraordinaire, __**AmonstEmeraldClouds. **__It feels better to call her an editor than a beta: this story is written like an actual novel and she puts in such good work. Without her, there is no C&P2, and so we should all be grateful! _

_Thank you, my friends. Stay safe, stay home, and stay positive. I'm with you and we'll be okay. - KR_


	8. Unexpected Disclosures

_Unexpected Disclosures_

* * *

"Man, wake _up._"

Janson blinked, trying to clear his vision in the harsh light above him. His head hurt, as if sharp knives were stabbing into his skull, and he couldn't quite gather himself enough to turn his head toward the voice.

"Go away," he muttered.

Swatting at the offending light, his hand briefly connected to what felt like a small flashlight, its jarring assault continuing even after it was moved out of arm's reach. Janson groaned before sitting up.

"_What?_" he growled.

The blurry form of Hobbie Klivian leaned in front of him, wide face and narrow eyes slowly congealing into familiar features. Hobbie leaned in far too close and Janson rolled his eyes, triggering another sharp stab of pain.

"You gotta get up," he said. "Wes, you _gotta_ get up."

Janson pressed his right hand to Hobbie's face, pushing it away and closing his eyes. "I gotta _sleep_, is what I gotta do. Go away."

"They arrested Solo."

Janson's eyes flew open, his heart stuttering into a startled rhythm, shock blowing through him like a cold, wintery gust of wind. "What?"

"He's in the aft brig," Hobbie said, dour voice thrumming with urgency. "Dodders had Langrog do it. The dumb shit is blabbing about it to everyone."

Guilt overtook him. Janson remembered with sudden, startling clarity the doubt he had expressed about Solo scrambling both the Mercs and the Rogues on the grounds of no intelligence or command anyone had heard. That _had _to be the reason for the arrest; Dodders was nothing if not a parliamentarian type, obsessed with rules and protocol and Solo was bound to wind up in the old general's sights sooner or later. This particular attack had been so fucking weird, it only made sense that High Command might ask some questions.

Solo'd been _right, _though_. _The Empire had been lurking in the gravity wells and if he hadn't sounded the alarm, there would have been a good chance that he—and everyone else aboard _Home One_—would have wound up captured or dead. The man should be getting a medal, not a stay in the brig.

Janson sat up, the knives' sting marginally lessened by the shock of the news. "What's the charge?"

"Assault," Hobbie said.

That threw him. "On Skywalker?"

He was thinking of his accusations against Solo, the jab about getting a promotion when Luke was out of commission.

Hobbie shook his head. "No. The princess."

Janson's jaw dropped, shock in every line of his body. "No."

Hobbie shrugged.

"No," Janson repeated. "He wouldn't."

No way in hell. _No way. _Solo looked at the princess like she held all the secrets to the universe in her hands. She wasn't as obvious about it but her _wanting _was as clear as his. The touches, the chemistry. The obvious way they antagonized each other so much it was like standing near a flame.

That shit was consensual and Janson knew it.

"The kicker is that she isn't even the one alleging it," Hobbie said. "Rumor has it she's been stuck in the medcenter and hasn't been allowed to give report."

Janson's chest exploded into cold rage as he pictured the dopey, lovestruck way Solo watched the princess when she wasn't looking, the disappearing space between them when they talked, the tempting quirk of lips that wanted to turn up into a grin whenever they conversed. He remembered all the glances, the secret smiles, the spring in both their steps.

And he remembered the image of Solo lifting the princess in his arms in the _Falcon_'s cockpit.

"Bullshit," he said and stood up, searching for his pants with fury in every motion of his limbs. He wasn't going to let this gross misjudgement stand.

He wasn't serious about much, but he'd be damned if he let Solo be used like that.

—0—

Footsteps loud in the corridor, _click-clicking _against durasteel and the thrum of energy as people passed by General Rieekan. Whispers all around, bouncing off the walls, as clear as the unease in the air.

Everyone was talking. Everyone. There wasn't a single person on _Home One _who didn't know and have an opinion on Solo sitting in the brig, and the gossip followed Carlist like a plague. From conference to conference, meeting to meeting, as he waded his way through the mire of incredulous disbelief and anger, the gossip followed as close behind him as his shadow.

_Anger, _yes. Anger boiling over in the ranks, uniting even the most contentious of rivals. He'd left a meeting with Lieutenant Zend—she'd been seemingly calm, but obviously holding onto her composure by a thread—and had several more on his schedule for today, all requested to discuss Solo's arrest.

Carlist shook his head, angry himself. Solo didn't deserve such treatment, not by any stretch of the imagination. Leia herself had confirmed to him that they were in a relationship, and while that didn't mean assault _couldn't _happen, reports from the medbay told him that the princess was _also _furious and claiming the allegation was false.

He hadn't had a spare second to confirm that with her. His schedule trudged on endlessly, more and more meetings added by the hour. So many Rogues and Mercs and general command staff expressing horror and shock, the roiling, simmering disbelief like a hum in the air.

If he were a man more likely to jump at shadows, Carlist might have begun to think he was being kept from the princess, tied down to meetings that the rest of High Command was not taking. The one with Zend hadn't been planned—she'd just burst into his office without warning—but she'd been the last in a long string of people in arms about Commander Solo's arrest. Between the meetings and the isolation precautions being placed around both her and Skywalker, there was no way to speak to the injured party in question.

Finally, Carlist couldn't take any more. Ducking under the premise of a quick inspection of the Rogue's telemetry scanners, he made a beeline for the only available person to clarify the situation.

_Home One_'s brig was a sterile set of empty rooms. It looked nothing like a jail, no bars or even a door. Instead a clear shield locked the officer in, much like an enviro-shield did for the water in a 'fresher. There was no privacy here, no dignity, but at the very least Carlist would be able to see and speak with Solo freely.

Stepping in with a glower, he said nothing to the guards and simply stared them down until they left their station. And there, on a bench, sat Solo: feet planted on the floor, knees wide apart, leaning against the wall behind him like he owned the place. In any other circumstance Carlist would have smiled at the pose, so typically _Solo_ that he had to fight the instinct. His clothes were rumpled; it seemed he hadn't been offered a change since the battle, and his hair was darker than usual with sweat. When he looked up, his eyes were tired and lined with worry, his mouth set into a tight grimace. That expression plucked at the father in Carlist, the man who saw so much of himself in the hotshot former-smuggler.

"Commander Solo," he said, taking care to enunciate the rank. It felt important to do so right now, either to make up for the lack of respect his colleagues had shown him or to emphasize the rank for Solo to hear. He wasn't sure which.

At the words, Han's head shot up and he stood in a whiplash-inducing movement, so fast that Carlist didn't see it so much as feel it. "Rieekan. You gotta get me out of here."

Carlist nodded and neared the shield. "It's a chaotic situation."

Han's eyes turned stormy, shadows falling over his expression. "It's all bullshit, you know that."

"I do."

"She said she told you," he continued. "You can ask Luke, or Chewie, or Salla. They know about us, they know I wouldn't do—"

Carlist interrupted him, quick as lightning. "She told me you two were in a relationship. Doesn't mean the assault didn't happen."

"It _didn't._"

"Can you give me a compelling reason why I should believe you?"

He waited, watching Solo swallow and open his mouth, close it, open it again. The younger man seemed to be working up to his own defense and Carlist waited as he would for any junior officer in this kind of situation. He believed Solo, he believed that he was innocent of these charges, but there was a part of him, a protective part, that knew he would need this assertion from Solo to really feel comfortable. Leia's word was as good as gold, but he hadn't been able to see her yet. So he had to ask the question, even if he knew the answer.

This was Carlist's princess. He had to be absolutely certain.

"Because I love her," Solo said, low and uncomfortable. Like the words weren't for Carlist's ears, like they belonged to someone else. He supposed they did. They came from Solo with all the hush and sanctity Carlist would assume should be there.

A part of him thrilled to hear such a frank declaration. It wasn't a surprise. Solo had been following the princess around for years and had been nothing but steadfast to her. Even as he'd railed against joining the Alliance in an official capacity, he had been trustworthy when it came to her safety and well-being. There was no one else Carlist trusted more with his monarch's life than Solo and his old, cantankerous ship.

It had been why he'd been pleased when Leia confirmed it to him in the briefing theater yesterday afternoon. Their attraction to each other had always been visible to anyone with eyes, and in the moments between fights, when their voices quieted and they allowed themselves an uneasy, combustible friendship, Carlist had seen their potential, had seen how compatible they were. Solo needed Leia's cool head, her detachment and finesse, and Leia needed Solo's frankness and spontaneity. A balance, as all good things were.

But that was _his _opinion. It didn't mean it reflected reality. And in a case like this, it was most important to listen to what actually was, not what one _wanted _it to be.

Carlist pressed his lips together. "Loving her doesn't mean you didn't hurt her."

A spark of rage at just the thought, flickering alone in his chest, drawing in oxygen and leaving him breathless with its ferocity. _He wouldn't dare, _Carlist thought. _And I wouldn't let him._

"Dammit, Carlist!" Han's voice broke through his dark thoughts. "You are supposed to be on my side here!"

"No," Carlist replied. "I am on _her _side. And since I can't get to her right now, I have to ask you. Is there any other reason why she would have been in that state?"

Solo blinked and shut his mouth.

"There has to be a reason, Han," he said into the quiet. "I believe that you love her."

He did. He believed it in his bones. The knowledge had been there a long time, nestled in marrow, a fundamental truth.

"But there's a reason she was not herself in that battle," he continued. "And I need to know why before I can get you out of here."

Solo stared at him through the shield, eyes wide. A breath, two, and then he turned on his heel, walked the few steps to the bench and sat down.

"I can't tell you," he said.

Rieekan sighed, deflated. "This isn't a game, son. They're talking about charging you with mutiny. You could be shipped out to who-knows-where. They could seize the _Falcon. _They would do it in a heartbeat for any reason they could find."

Solo shook his head, put his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together. "No."

Carlist watched him on the bench, the way his eyes focused on the decking below his boots, and felt truly helpless.

—0—

"Release me immediately."

Luke could hear her from down the medbay corridor, the agitated tone of highborn rage Leia used when she felt at her most desperate. And while he was angry with her, at her deception, at Han's, at the way they had all kept the secret of her Force-sensitivity from him, that tone of voice was not one he ignored. Not once, not ever.

"Leia?" he asked as he padded down the corridor. "What's going on?"

She was in the hatchway between her private room and the open medic's station, regal even in her patient's gown and with hair falling out of the thick braid that trailed down her back. When she turned to look at him, her eyes were fierce, wild and scared. Vengeful. She looked like she had leashed her anger tightly to her side, like she was in no danger of losing control, but only because she stubbornly refused to do so. Chewie was standing by her side, looking equally furious: fangs bared, blue eyes a dangerous fire in the hair around his face.

"They arrested him," Leia said.

Luke furrowed his brow. "Arrested _who?_"

She stared at him, her ferocity as obvious as a stun beam. Chewie growled, low, wordless but clear enough.

"_Han?_" he asked, shock rolling through him. "Why?"

Luke thought back to the morning, the times Han had stuck his head in to check on him, the glasses of water he'd brought and the annoying jokes he'd made. That had only been a few hours ago; what could he have possibly done—?

"Because I woke him up and had him drag me to you," Leia bit out. "Because I was so out of control that somebody assumed I had been drugged."

Oh.

_Oh. _

"That's… not good," he said, lame and feeling impotent. "That's not good at all."

Her glare was like a quick-acting poison: withering and consuming.

Luke held up his hands in surrender. "But you _weren't _drugged. They have your blood tests now; that'll show them—

"Jan doesn't even believe _me. _Do you really think he will believe a blood test?"

"Has Dodonna come by to see you?" Luke asked.

_He has not been here, _Chewie answered as Leia shook her head. _Old-General is not accepting meetings but I sent Zend to speak with Rieekan._

Luke's eyes slid to the side, trying to think. The situation was tenuous, of course; these things were always messy. The Alliance had had a few accusations of sexual assault over the past few months and Leia had always made sure the allegations were addressed. In some cases the alleger wanted discretion and in others they needed to speak for themselves. Every case was entirely different. And Leia was adamant about it, almost vehemently aggressive in her support, in a way that had made Luke far more aware of the incredible delicacy of the cause. Until Leia had come into his life, he hadn't realized how terrifying gender politics could be.

But _this_ wasn't _that_. And Dodonna was twisting the grand sensitivity of such an accusation to serve his own purposes.

"What does he want?" he asked, finally arriving at the heart of the matter. "What does he get out of arresting Han?"

"I don't have the slightest idea."

_Spite, _Chewie offered.

Luke turned to the Wookiee, nodding as his eyes cut to Leia. "I mean, he's not Han's biggest fan—"

"No," she interrupted. "Jan isn't _that _vindictive. He's probably using it to center himself, finding something to focus on as we transition to Echo Base."

Luke closed his mouth, not wanting to disagree with Leia in such a state. He wasn't so sure about Dodonna's motives though. It was no secret that he hated Han, that the commission of the former smuggler nettled him. One could be a great hero of a revolution and still be petty.

"We need to go talk to him, tell our side," Luke finally said. "I'll get a human medic, I'm sure we can get discharged..."

He trailed off at Leia's fiercely condescending look. And then he realized his own mistake.

He turned to the Two-One-Bee. "We can't leave?"

"You are under strict isolation orders, Commander Skywalker," the droid said. "You may not be discharged for some time."

Leia tossed her head, her wild braid slinging over a shoulder like a snake. "I demand to speak to General Dodonna," she said, taking up her fight against the droid with all the passion he knew she possessed.

Luke was startled to realize that he felt more alone than ever, that the bureaucracy of the Alliance was not the shining pillar he had told himself it was. He retreated into himself, mulling over what Leia had told him earlier, how alone she also felt.

_Is this what it means to be a Jedi? _he thought amongst the rising tide of Leia's loud protests, louder, louder, louder until he could _feel _her anger pinging from wall to wall. Until he could taste it in the air. And in his aura-sight, he saw Leia burning bright red, flaring with fire and heat, so angry that he could barely see her natural form.

—0—

Six hours of waiting, of going through the right channels, of scheduling meeting after meeting with Jan's secretarial droids and with constant cancellations, had left their mark on Carlist. The usually calm Alderaanian had become irate. _His _princess locked in a medcenter without visitation rights, _his _subordinate stuck in the brig on—from what Carlist could see—a trumped-up, ridiculous charge.

Enough.

He jogged to Jan Dodonna as the man crossed the hangar, the only place he could see to intercept him. After all, Carlist had been on the prowl for the past hour.

"Jan!" he called over the din of a bay at work.

The other general turned without managing to hide his annoyed expression. "Carlist," he answered. "Can't it wait?"

Stepping in front of him, Carlist blocked his path. Jan looked tired, the dark circles under his eyes a testament to how little he'd rested since the attack early this morning. Carlist could feel it, the concern, the resigned fury in the general, could feel how righteousness took the place of sense when exhaustion reared its ugly head.

He did not think Jan Dodonna was a bad man. He was a tired man with a grudge and an opportunity to act on that grudge in service to a higher ideal.

"We need to talk," Carlist said. "What have you found in your investigation?"

"I don't have time for this. I am the lead in several investigations that make no sense, discerning information from unreliable and unhelpful sources. And that is not even considering the work to dock and transport people and equipment onto the planet's surface—"

"You have incarcerated an innocent man," Carlist interrupted. "That is more important at the moment."

Jan turned fully to him, shoulders heavy. He noted the tightness in Jan's mouth, the lines that creased his forehead in stress. "_Innocent,_" he repeated. "There is no such man in the galaxy."

Carlist put up his hands. "Innocent of what you claim he has done," he amended, well aware that Solo could hardly be considered _innocent _in the broader context.

"I take allegations of sexual misconduct very seriously."

"As you should," Carlist agreed. "But shouldn't the allegation be confirmed by the supposed victim herself?"

Jan pressed his lips together, shaking his head. "Ideally. But I would prefer an accused predator not to be free on my ship while we investigate. Doesn't that follow the most prudent course of action?"

"_Our ship,_" Carlist corrected. "And Her Highness requested to speak with you hours ago."

"This is not the only item on my schedule. I have a base to ready, too. Perhaps you should be more concerned with _that _than with one soldier under your command?"

Jan made to step around Carlist, but the Alderaanian parried his efforts. "A soldier who acted honorably today. A soldier who saved us_._"

"Really? _Saved us? _From an Imperial force that discovered our location because of a probe _his squadron found and brought back to base?" _

Carlist shook his head. "That wasn't his fault."

"A soldier who defied orders and took off on his own vigilante mission, endangering his XO and the XO of another squadron in the process? A squadron he took command of without authorization?"

"I gave him permission," Carlist defended.

Jan exhaled harshly, trained angry eyes on Carlist's. "This man might have defiled your surviving monarch. Surely you don't take that lightly?"

_Defiled. _A telling word choice and one that made Carlist clench his fists. _Defiled, _as if purity was a standard to judge _anyone, _much less a woman who could and would speak for herself if given the opportunity. Too ancient an ideal for matriarchal Alderaan, for any modern society, truly.

_Defiled, _like Jan Dodonna could assess Leia Organa and see anything but capability and strength, inside and outside her bunk.

Carlist opened his mouth to respond and shut it before he could. While the information he'd gleaned from Leia herself had helped him come to his conclusion, it was also not his information to spread. Tactics, inventory, grim outlooks… all of these were in Jan's right to know as well as Carlist's. They shared the burden of command with heavy hearts and mutually-assured destruction.

But they were talking about the personal life of a colleague, a woman of enormous cultural and political influence. He thought of Solo, locked up in the brig but refusing to answer Carlist's questions even when it might free him.

That loyalty was important. That loyalty meant something. And Carlist was not about to bend against that kind of honest goodness.

"I don't take it lightly," he answered once his feelings had settled. "But I think the princess is the only one who should be making such allegations."

Quiet descended between them, as Carlist realized they had gathered a bit of an audience. Mechanics had stopped their work, the buzzing of a revolution silenced in favor of the conversation between two of the Alliance's senior officers. Those rumors that had already spread—he could only imagine—would intensify in magnitude. They had to tread lightly.

Into the quiet, Jan spoke, his voice hushed with the same realization. "There is more going on here than just the allegation, Carlist," Jan said. "The blood tests have shown something… else."

Carlist blinked. "You can't access her records. That's private."

"I can and I have," Jan replied. "Hers and Commander Skywalker's both."

Carlist's chest flooded with worry and anger. "You are way out of line."

"You'll understand," the other general said, so grave that Carlist leaned in. "Or perhaps you already do."

Carlist furrowed his brow. "Perhaps I'll understand _what_?"

"I wonder how much you already know," Jan said with an odd tilt to his head. "You were close to the Viceroy, after all."

It was like Jan had suddenly started speaking a different language; Carlist couldn't make sense of the words.

He settled on a simple question. "What does any of this have to do with Bail?"

"You should probably come with me to debrief the princess—" Jan began but was interrupted by a cacophony on the other side of the bay.

"General Dodonna! General Rieekan!"

The voice was loud and instantly identifiable as Lieutenant Wes Janson's. Carlist turned to look behind him, noting a gray-uniformed figure coming at them at a dead run, arms flying and boots clicking rhythmically against the deckplates.

"Janson, please," Carlist said to him. "Not now."

"With all… due… respect, sirs," Wes Janson said between breaths. "It can't wait. I have… information, _fuck, _I can't breathe... "

Carlist put a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "You are offshift, Lieutenant. Go back to sleep."

"No, General," Janson said, breathing shallowly like he'd run a marathon. "I can't sleep. Solo isn't guilty."

Carlist stiffened. "It's an order, Janson," he said, a spike of realization hitting him with the speed of a podracer. "Hit the bunks."

"They're together," he huffed. Loudly. "_Together_ together. I've seen them."

Carlist didn't react but inwardly he winced. The crowd had stilled. Everyone had heard. Everyone was listening.

"Who?" Jan asked of Wes, seeming flustered by the interruption.

"Solo and the princess," Janson said. "They're sleeping together. It's not assault."

Carlist eyed the crowd, the hushed whispers that broke out everywhere around them, like echoes in a cave. Then he turned to Jan.

In any other situation, his expression would have been amusing. Lips parted, feet planted wide, eyes narrow: Jan looked like a caricature of himself. Always in control, unflappable, secure in all his authority, Jan Dodonna was the epitome of a good military man. And at the moment, he more resembled a Gaavian Float-Fish than a general.

"Impossible," Jan said when his mouth caught up to his brain.

"No, sir," Janson answered, and Carlist wanted to kick him for his always-loud voice. "They're banging. Having relations—"

"That's quite enough, Janson," Carlist interrupted.

"—doing the—"

"Stop," Carlist interrupted again, adding more heat and volume. "He understands."

Janson nodded, eyes big and innocent. "They're _together. _Whatever it was that happened, it didn't have anything to do with assault."

Jan closed his mouth, seeming to catch himself in an undignified expression, and turned wide eyes to Carlist. "Is this true?"

Carlist eyed the audience, an audience that had frankly forgotten to even pretend to be working. "Yes. It's true."

Jan's eyes seemed to unfocus, his brain working feverishly to comprehend. Again, Carlist found it amusing, the way Jan's elitism showed itself. What a strange universe he lived in, to be _surprised _at this revelation. Carlist had been aware of the growing closeness between the two for some time. He hadn't actually needed the princess to confirm it to him, though he felt gratified when she had. A sign of trust and a nice little hint at how deeply she'd fallen.

However, his mirth died down as the whispers doubled, as he stood within earshot of Leia's personal life being splayed out for all to hear. This wasn't at all what he'd wanted. This was just as much an invasion of her privacy as Jan's inspection of her medical files and it sickened him to his core.

"Let's go," Carlist urged Jan. "We should not discuss this here."

—0—

Leia was incensed, furious, an out-of-her-control rage thrumming through her veins like fire. Her fingers twitched with untapped kinesthetic energy, something she had only noticed on Nar Shaddaa, something that forewarned potential destruction. She wanted to tear something apart, wanted to watch her anger manifest in the physical world in some obvious way.

_Han. _

He was in the center of the fire, flames whipping around him like a molten hurricane. Han, who had done _nothing _but support and love her, touched by this insane accusation. Han, who had his faults but who would never, ever, lay a hand on her, would never treat _anyone _with such disrespect. Han, who was the sole reason Luke and Leia were here on _Home One _and not in an interrogation cell on the _Executor. _

Han, who had warned her.

The tingling in her fingers spread to her wrists, palpable anger in every cell. Energy sparked beneath her skin, she could feel it, could feel the power she despised, growing stronger and stronger as the image of Han sitting in an Alliance brig solidified in her mind, visceral, real and true.

A _snap, _loud and heavy interrupted her rage. The Two-One-Bee leaned to peer behind her, and Leia turned with Chewie and Luke, finding that a telemetry monitor had fallen to the floor, the extending arm that held it aloft broken in half.

_I didn't do that, _she thought even as she knew she had.

A reflex.

She had to control herself.

Luke stood next to her, so much calmer than she was, ice-blue eyes a complete contrast to the burning she could feel behind her own. She tried to breathe in his peaceful essence, tried to exhale the rage into the sterile Medcenter air. She found the rhythm of his breathing, tried to match it, tried to find a center that _wasn't _Han, a center outside of her own protectiveness. The rage bustled in her veins but she held on, trying to focus on Luke, imagining blue where red had taken command.

"Your Highness."

She turned her head to see Carlist and Jan walking toward her. Both men looked exhausted, dark circles under their eyes and a thin twist to their lips.

Relief and anger flooded her in equal measure, relief to see Carlist with her own eyes, alive after the disaster that was this morning's evacuation, anger directed at Jan for his unconscionable actions toward Han.

But reassurance, too, that she could straighten out this mistake. Suddenly the daunting prospect of telling anyone who would listen that she loved Han was negligible. In the face of revealing her Force-sensitivity, which she knew she would _also _have to disclose, her relationship with Han was a joy. The time for privacy had passed; if she had revealed it in the first place Han wouldn't be sitting in the brig right now—

"It was not assault," she said. Her voice was probably too loud. "Commander Solo and I are in a relationship."

The generals stopped just short of Chewie's bulk. "So I hear," Jan said through gritted teeth. "Apparently I am the last to know."

_It is none of your business, _Chewie growled and Leia almost smiled at the reversal in the Wookiee's thinking. He'd been quite adamant in his opinion before they'd told Luke.

"There was no need to disclose it," she said. "I am not his commanding officer."

"General Dodonna, sir, I can personally vouch for them," Luke jumped in.

Jan turned to Luke, icy eyes narrow. "I wouldn't meddle, son," he said. "I haven't even _begun _to think about your dereliction of duties this morning."

Luke opened his mouth to reply but stopped. Turning to look at Leia, her stomach flipped to see the pain there, the loyalty that kept him from defending himself.

Because how to defend Luke without revealing the larger, all-consuming secret? Luke could say that he was indisposed because of Vader, but then how to explain Leia's similar state?

_Release my Cub, _Chewie growled, low and threatening. _You have caused enough damage._

"Really, Jan," Carlist stepped in. "It's time to let Solo go."

Jan seemed to consider them all, eyes sweeping from one to another, mouth set in his perpetually-disapproving grimace. He settled on Leia. "You chose him?" he asked.

Leia was surprised at the soft tone in the man's voice, how bewildered he seemed, how flabbergasted. And, too, she was surprised that amid the questions he had to have about the morning's events, _this _question rose in prominence.

"I chose him," she answered. "And he chose me."

Chewie stepped closer to her, as if to brace her upright, but for her this didn't take any effort. It was not a painful concession to make. The truth was more complicated than fear of disapproval, and in any case, if that had been her sole worry, she would have divulged it the minute the _Falcon_'s struts had hit _Home One_'s docking bay after Nar Shaddaa.

Jan blinked and dropped his eyes, clearing his throat. "There is another matter," he said, turning to Luke. "You were not intoxicated during the evacuation. There is no trace of alcohol in your blood tests."

"No, sir," Luke answered.

"In fact, there is no indication of _any _physical ailments in your chart. Why weren't you in your X-wing during the evacuation, Commander?"

A flicker of anger rippled through Leia's chest. "You can't look through his medical record."

Jan ignored her. "Answer my question, soldier."

Luke pursed his lips and shook his head.

"I have the same question, Commander Skywalker," Carlist stepped in.

Leia sucked in a breath, realizing the moment of reckoning had come. Luke could not answer this question without revealing her own Force-sensitivity and he would see that as a betrayal. She looked at him, at Chewie, thought about Salla, who had kept the secret for months. She was not ready, she was not ready, she was not ready to reveal this.

But she'd already hurt Luke so much; she had seen it in his eyes. The idea of someone to share the burden with him, the excitement in his eyes when she'd confirmed it… He deserved better than her silence and her fear. And she didn't want him to be alone anymore.

She was not ready, but she also wouldn't betray Luke any more than she already had.

"Commander Skywalker and I were both affected by Darth Vader's presence in the system."

Chewie murmured a soft, wordless sound and Luke's shoulders visibly sagged in relief. Carlist looked confused.

But Jan didn't move a muscle.

"I'm Force-sensitive, like Luke," she said. "I found out during my mission to Nar Shaddaa."

Carlist blinked, seemed to read an invisible script in front of him, eyes moving back and forth across an imaginary page. "I… _How?"_

_She used the Force to ensure our escape, _Chewie offered.

Carlist looked to Luke for a translation. "I don't understand."

"I don't quite understand it, either," Leia replied. The hollow in her stomach was becoming a chasm and she wished more than anything that Han was standing beside her. "But it's true. And it is why both Luke and I were less than helpful in the evacuation."

"We sounded the alarm," Luke whispered.

Hair-trigger anger rushed through her. "You were unconscious and I could barely walk. We didn't _do_ anything. _Han _is the one who saved us."

_Cub only knew to act because you told him to, _Chewie offered, always the pragmatist, always the optimist. _And Little Jedi told us to go into the cloud. You grabbed the yoke to prevent us from Vader's initial blasts. All of you deserve much thanks._

Carlist leaned into Leia's space, lowering his voice. "You've only known since Nar Shaddaa?"

She nodded, knowing what he was getting at. "I don't think my parents knew," she whispered. "And if they did, they must have kept it secret to protect me."

"They wouldn't have known or they would have adopted the both of you."

Jan's voice was like cold water, splashing into bone marrow and the deepest recesses of their stomachs. An unwelcome addition: everyone else in this room was family.

Luke found his words first. "I was never up for adoption, sir," he said. "My aunt and uncle raised me after my parents died."

"Who were they?" Jan asked.

Leia wanted to slap him. "What is the point in all of this, Jan? Luke is not the one you should be discussing. We've known about his Force-sensitivity from the beginning."

"Correct. I am trying to ascertain when you two found out you were twins."

It was like being dropped into a vacuum. Nothing moved. No one spoke or breathed. The five of them—six, if you included the Two-One-Bee next to Carlist—were motionless. It wasn't like the paralyzing influence of Vader in her dreams; no, this was like her muscles had stopped working of their own volition. Shut down. Motionless.

"Jan." Carlist found his voice first. "_Jan._"

"Did you know, Carlist?" the older general asked. "Is this another secret you've kept from High Command?"

Leia's focus had shifted to a pinprick. She could hear the men speaking, could understand the words, but her brain was just a muscle and her muscles had failed her.

"I don't know what you think you're doing—"

Jan's voice was harsh. "Their blood tests are indisputable."

"What… What would even make you _think _to compare them—?"

"Something Solo said," Jan dismissed. "It doesn't matter. I want to know how long you two have known."

Leia couldn't think. It was like being dropped back in time, to the medbunk on the _Falcon_ where Han had first told her of his suspicions of her Force-sensitivity. She felt like she had _just _reconciled herself to that revelation. This… _This _was so incredibly bizarre, so much more incomprehensible to her, that she was struggling to find her voice.

_Little Princess, _Chewie said, leaning down to peer into her wayward focus. _Little Princess, are you okay?_

"Twin?" Luke asked so quietly that no one but Leia seemed to hear him.

"This is ridiculous," Carlist said. "The odds are _astronomical. _Skywalker came to us by pure accident—"

_Little Princess?_

"You don't believe me?" Jan asked. "Two-One-Bee, call up the records."

Leia didn't see it. She didn't see anything. Her brain had stopped computing anything but sound, anything but the different voices speaking around her.

"—gross invasion of privacy—"

"—keeping secrets from us—"

—_indefensible to tell Little Princess and Little Jedi this way_—

Leia heard them but didn't react. Her lungs could only take in small breaths of oxygen. She'd lost all feeling in her hands. Her head felt too heavy for her neck. Too big. Too full.

_Twins, _she thought.

And with one last burst of energy she looked at Luke, looked into those ice-blue eyes, so different from her own. Looked at the face that didn't resemble hers in the slightest, looked at the kindness etched into his features, so different from her cold passivity, the lengths she went to appear untouchable.

She thought back to this morning, the need to see him, to touch him as he lay on the ramp. She thought about the sudden imperative to make sure he was safe, the way she could feel him sometimes, could anticipate his attacks when they sparred in the training room. From the moment they'd met they had just _clicked, _always deriving such comfort from each other. Their friendship had had no right to blossom so fast.

She stared at him, at the man Jan called her twin. Opened her mouth, heard the word not in her voice but Luke's—

"Twin," he said.

* * *

_Author's Note: And that's where we go more AU within the original AU. Thank you so much for your comments and support; they truly mean the world to me!_

_The next chapter will be posted on Monday, June 1st. Special thanks as always to my editor and partner-in-crime, __**AmongEmeraldClouds. **__Stay inside as much as you can, wash your hands and stay safe! -KR_


	9. Clarity

_Clarity_

* * *

A faint hiss was Han's only indication that the seal to his cell was dissipating. Startled, he looked up, eyes tired and wary.

He'd lost track of the time and his back was killing him. All jails were the same, he groused to himself. No creature comforts, no privacy. He had fallen asleep on the hard bench but he now sat up and leaned into the wall, ready for the next person to walk through the hatch.

He had been too exhausted to sleep deeply, caught in an endless cycle of anger, worry and then right back to anger. Exhausted and hyper-fixated: a bad combination for anyone, much less a fellow trapped in a small cell.

It had been at least 24 hours since Leia woke him up in a panicked frenzy. That was his best guess, since there was no chrono on the wall to confirm and no one had come in besides Rieekan.

His eyes took a moment to focus: bleary, watery shapes assembling into normal forms and colors. When the spinning eased, he found himself looking at the weary face of Rieekan.

Han jumped up, back protesting but the pain quickly forgotten. "Is she okay?"

"She's fine," the general said. "Being released from Medical as we speak."

Han heard the odd tone in Rieekan's voice, the stiff, halting cadence.

"But?"

Rieekan sighed. "I… she's fine. Physically, at least. Chewbacca is with her."

That was a strange way of phrasing it, although Han knew Leia _had _to be a hailstorm of emotional wreckage at the moment. Chewie would make sure she was okay, he was confident about that.

He moved to his next biggest concern. "Luke?"

"Him, too." Rieekan paused and then noticeably slumped, shoulders rolling forward. "Did you know she was Force-sensitive?"

A sharp inhale and then Han nodded. He'd known all along that this revelation was the likely outcome. They'd forced her hand by locking him in here. Dodonna hadn't even known what fire he'd been playing with and now he'd only managed to hurt the woman he claimed he was trying to protect.

Han watched Rieekan as he pursed his lips, the general falling into his own inner maelstrom, trying to find a center in the middle of all the chaos. Leia had told Han about her history with Rieekan, how the man had been a good friend of her father's and a staple in the House Organa. In the dearth of support from her people, he had become a kind of mentor, a father-figure. And ever since, they had toed a unique line between confidants and colleagues that Han didn't fully comprehend. He _could_ appreciate feeling both awe for the young princess of Alderaan's gumption and anger that that gumption came from someone who was more interested in the welfare of the galaxy than her own safety.

And so Han understood Rieekan's bewilderment. No one else but Chewie and Han himself had seen what Leia was truly capable of. It had to come as a kind of shock. But Han had seen it with his own eyes, had been protected by that indescribable power.

To a man like Rieekan, however, who had watched over Leia her entire life, it must have seemed like a complete surprise.

"Do you know why she didn't tell me?" he asked.

Han swallowed, feeling the push and pull of dueling loyalties. On one hand, he had been trying to get Leia to open up to Luke about her experiences on Nar Shaddaa for weeks. In the back of his mind, he had also hoped she would confide in the general. Leia could pretend she was ice-cold strategy and bad-ass confidence all she wanted, but Han knew that her awe-inspiring confidence hid a very deep empathy and a need to keep her chosen people close. And those chosen people included Carlist Rieekan.

She'd told him about Han. That was proof enough.

Still, he felt torn about talking to Rieekan about this stuff. Han figured the general could help Leia, help her understand more about her parents and her past. But Han also knew she would find any such conversation to be deeply patronizing and unwelcome. She'd learned an awful lot of terrible things about _Han's _history since they'd started sleeping together and she hadn't shared any of it with anyone else. And while he didn't exactly know all the rules of a stable, committed relationship, he was pretty damned sure that blabbing about personal shit broke a few of them.

"You'd have to talk to her about that, General. I'm just the guy she's sleeping with."

Rieekan rolled his eyes at his flippance. "Sounds like it's more serious than that."

"Says who?"

"Says _you,_" the general said, a hint of a grin at the edges of his mouth. "When you declared love while in jail."

Han tilted his head. "Don't know what you're talking about. _Sir._"

Shaking his head, Rieekan walked over to the edge of the cell and pressed his palm flat against the security reader at the door. "You're a pain in the ass, Solo. It's too bad you're good at your job."

Han nodded and sat back on the hard bench. "Right?"

"And since when do you call anyone _sir?_"

"Outside of the bunk?" he asked with the last of his humor. "I don't."

Rieekan turned back to face him as the hatch hissed open, scrunching his nose. "Shut your mouth and get through this hatch."

Han's eyes shot to the general's, then to the door, then back to the general. "_What?"_

"The charges against you have been dropped," Rieekan said in a much more even tone. "You are free to leave."

"Just like that?" Han asked, standing up.

Rieekan shrugged. "Jan is many things, but he isn't stupid."

"Are you sure?"

"Fairly sure. He can also only focus on one scandal at a time."

Han stood frozen, wondering if this was some kind of allegiance trap. He wasn't a paranoid man by most measures, but he sure as hell had been put through the wringer the past couple of days. He was tired, he was worried, he felt the familiar bone-deep weariness he always felt after a tough battle. And he didn't fully trust himself not to fuck up.

His indecision must have been obvious. "It's not a trick, son. Her Highness told Jan what happened, her dreams, her… abilities. Why she acted the way she did before the evacuation."

A flutter ran through Han's chest at the idea of getting out of here, of seeing Leia sooner than he had anticipated "Where is she?"

"I'll help you find her if you cut out the smart remarks about my princess."

Han grabbed his jacket and rushed to the hatch, eager to leave the cell and try to alleviate the tension today had held over all of them. "_Your princess,_" he muttered under his breath, missing the grim smile Rieekan gave to his back as he followed him out the hatch.

—0—

Leia had fallen into herself, descending into a place no one else could reach. A chasm had appeared beneath her cool facade and she had plummeted—the human woman with substance and thoughts and feelings—while above the mask remained in place. Down she'd fallen, down, down until she wasn't sure if she could crawl her way back.

She was here and yet she wasn't. A dichotomy of wavy lines, her mind a thousand parsecs away but her body taking up space in the docking bay deck. The area was busy, mechanics buzzing, checking ships, readying them for the cold horror of Echo Base. They'd make landfall in a few hours and then they could finish the work of the advance team. The excitement of a new base, of being planetside, floated through the air as if it were alive.

But she wasn't there yet. She wasn't sure if she would be for a while.

_Twin. _The word hummed, underlying everything, underscoring the business at hand. She didn't have a role here, now. She only had a twin brother and what the hell did that even _mean_?

Leia turned to look at him. Luke, who gazed around the steady movement in the docking bay, whose blue eyes settled on hers when he realized she was staring at him. She catalogued his features, the nose that wasn't like hers at all. Maybe the shape of their eyes was similar? Their mouths definitely weren't. He was taller than her, but everyone was taller than her anyway. Where he was blonde and cool and composed, she was dark and fire and movement.

_Twin._

They should look alike, shouldn't they? They should have similar life-days, similar names. How did Owen and Beru Lars and Bail and Breha Organa wind up with a set of twins? Where was the connection between them? And why hadn't Leia _known, _how had she not _figured it out? _If she'd shared a womb with this boy, shouldn't she have known?

Why had no one told them?

She hadn't had a clue. There was a _connection _between them_, _of course, but she'd always thought it was friendship that bound them together. She had trusted him so fast, but then again she'd _had to; _they had met in the bowels of a giant, planet-killing space station hours before her slated execution. Their lives had depended on immediate trust, but then why had it mattered that his life be spared? Billions had just perished on Alderaan: why was the farmer from Tatooine any different?

_Daddy, _she thought. _Why didn't you tell me?_

Nothing made sense to her now and the constants were crumbling. Who knew what the fallout from her revelations would be? If there'd been any way to keep it hidden, she would have buried it so deep no one could find it. She would have clawed her way through the mire on her own if it hadn't been for…

_Han._

Tall, rangey ams, long legs, chaotic flop of hair over a chiseled jaw. At first she thought she was imagining him, not a hallucination but a figment of her desperate wish to see him. She didn't trust herself to know the difference. Truth didn't seem to have a whole lot of meaning to her anyway.

But then she caught his eyes and the look she found there was of such enormous relief that she kicked into instinct. Before she knew what was happening her feet were moving, running, the loose set of fatigues clinging to her body as the boots hit the deck at a stray clip. She launched herself into his arms in plain view of everyone, wanting nothing more than to hold onto the one constant she had left.

"Leia," he murmured into her hair and his arms were so warm, the heat coming off his chest soothing in the most ridiculous way. Her feet dangled off the floor and she was making a spectacle of herself but she didn't care, she didn't _care,_ she was a knot of emotions and she needed… she needed…

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry, Han. I'm so sorry."

"No," he said as her boots touched the ground again.

"It's my fault—"

"Doesn't matter," he said, leaning down to catch her eyes and framing her face with his hands. "You okay?"

She put her hands over his and looked at those beautiful eyes, deep into the unfathomable green, over to the grim set of his mouth. "No," she said and was shocked to discover the truth of her answer. She felt nothing. Her brain whirled at a thousand kilometers a second but she felt nothing aside from her need to make sure Han was okay. "Are _you?_"

He looked at her for a moment, still unreadable, still as unfazed as ever, and then bent to press his forehead against hers. She closed her eyes, aware that this was more intimate than if he had kissed her there in front of gods-knew-who, aware that _everyone _had heard about the assault allegations and was deconstructing every single thing they did here, now, in a moment of such relief and exposure.

And yet.

Why did it matter?

Nothing mattered anymore.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped closer to him, unhurried, unworried, and for one simple, pure moment as she pressed her lips to his, she let the galaxy go.

—0—

Inside the _Falcon, _around the dejarik table with the light low and the air crowded, five figures sat in silence: Han, Leia and Rieekan around the holochess board, Luke and Chewie—leaning on the nav station—holding cups of caf. Leia's cup of tea was cooling, untouched, and Han's left hand was hidden from the others, cradled as it was in both of Leia's and sitting in her lap. She couldn't seem to stop touching him and he wasn't sure if it was for his sake or her own.

"Twins," he said into the stillness.

No one answered him. He swallowed, throat thick, trying to put the invisible puzzle pieces together in order to see the whole picture. It didn't make much sense, no matter how he switched angles or tried to shove the pieces into the wrong spots. The puzzle was impossible to understand, so he asked the next logical question.

"How?"

"We don't know," Luke said. "That's kind of the long and the short of it."

"The blood tests confirm it," Rieekan said. "I was furious when Jan looked at them—"

_The lowlife_, Chewie interrupted.

"—but there really isn't any doubt about it," he finished.

Han looked at the general for a moment, then turned to Luke. "Did you know?"

The kid seemed taken aback. "_What?_"

"Did your… your mumbo-jumbo… tell you about any of this?"

"No," Luke answered with eyes that looked as big as _Home One. _"I had no idea."

Han exhaled and focused on the last person in the hold. She gripped his hand tightly, like a lifeline, and he hated that he had to ask. "Did _you_ know?"

She shook her head, eyes far away and… he didn't like the word _empty, _but that's how she looked to him. _Empty. _Like their expansive scope had whittled down to nothing. She was either too large or too small for this moment, he wasn't sure which, but the vacancy was terrible and terrifying.

"It explains a lot," he said, trying to lighten the mood. "You being twins."

Leia didn't turn to look at him but Luke did. "_What?_"

"I mean," he began, trying not to disclose how much he'd watched their interactions before the mission to Nar Shaddaa. "You both do that thing with your fingers."

It was bait and she had to have known it, but looking up at him, Leia fell for it anyway. "What thing?"

"The _thing_," he said. "When you're stressed or, or—"

_Overwhelmed, _Chewie supplied. _Tired. Under pressure. Sometimes when you have not eaten._

"Yeah_. _The little finger maneuver. Like this."

He performed it for them then, a little show, albeit _much _slower than either of them did it. Like a wave from littlest finger to thumb. A quick snap-roll, like when Luke turned on his father's lightsaber or when Leia set up for a tough shot with her blaster. Barely noticeable but, well, Han had spent a lot of time _noticing _Leia and it was a quirk that humanized her. It happened so fast that hardly anyone else would see it; too vague to be a tell but too often reoccurring for it to _not _be.

Leia squeezed his hand but didn't answer. Luke, however, was fascinated and leaned so far over his perch that Han was afraid he'd topple over. "That's incredible. I never noticed that I did that."

"It's also why you can't bluff to save your life."

Han noticed Rieekan had not said anything and directed his next question to him. "Ever notice that they both eat slower than a bantha in summer?"

The general looked startled. "How slowly does a bantha eat in summer?"

"Slow," Luke answered. "I'm not _that_ slow."

_Yes, Little Jedi. You are._

Han nudged Leia's shoulder with his own, hoping to unlock her enough to join the conversation. "How many times have I had to kick you two out of my ship because you took too long with dinner?"

Han expected a quick, biting retort. He'd kicked Luke out of the _Falcon _before but never Leia, having given her free reign of the ship even before they had started their sleepovers. She had slept in the crew cabin before; she had used his hot water 'fresher on more than one occasion and he had even let her sneak caf from the galley because she preferred his to the sludge the Alliance served.

How they hadn't figured out he'd loved her was beyond him.

Leia didn't answer him directly. She didn't point out his flagrant attempt to mischaracterize their habits. She didn't smile or scowl or do anything except say one clear, heartbroken sentence.

"It explains our power, too."

Han shut his mouth and looked to Rieekan sitting across from him. The older man didn't seem to know how to reply to her, either. Luke sure thought he did.

"Speaking of that," the kid said. "You said you learned you were Force-sensitive on Nar Shaddaa?"

Leia nodded.

Rieekan leaned in. "What happened? The report didn't mention anything about that."

Han thought she might not answer or that he might have to urge her on. This new side of her was confusing. Shock, yeah, he understood that. But he suspected the best thing she could do would be to talk about it with the people she'd chosen to trust with her real self. The whole issue the past few months had been that Leia was not meant for secrets—she could do it for the sake of the cause, but this wasn't for the survival of the Alliance.

He slipped his hand from between hers and wrapped it around her lower back. "Ah, hell. Just tell 'em, Sweetheart."

"I stopped stun bolts in the marketplace, in front of Vader," she said, propping her clasped hands on the holochess table.

"With her bare hands," Han added.

Luke and Rieekan were silent. Han normally would have laughed at the hushed eagerness in Luke's demeanor, but now was not the time.

"It's not something I particularly want to revisit," she finished with a little less rigidity, with a little more of the Leia-strength he adored. "I still don't know how to feel about it."

"Like… you put up your hand and deflected them?" Luke asked. "Can Jedi do that?"

They all turned to Chewie and Rieekan, the two oldest beings in the group. Shifting his weight, Chewie softly growled: _I saw Jedi do much that I could not explain. It did not surprise me to see Little Princess's abilities._

Rieekan did not seem to totally understand Chewie's Shyriiwook. He shrugged. "I heard rumors but never met any Jedi before the Purge."

_There is a holo, _Chewie offered.

Han shifted, uncomfortable. The holo had been an accident, one that Han had felt bad about keeping, one Leia knew existed and had not told him to delete. He'd known that there would come a day when Leia's Force-sensitivity would be made public, or at least _more _public than she wanted it to be, and something in him had felt it was important to have it safe and secured in the _Falcon_'s databanks.

Maybe it'd been a kind of pride, too. He didn't know.

But Leia only shook her head and said, "I don't want to see it. Not yet."

Han shared a worried look with his first mate. Leia's reluctance to accept her abilities—or _potential _or s_ensitivity_ or whatever she wanted to call it—was uncharacteristic for her. The whole episode had been that way and they didn't know how to help her. She had proven to the entire galaxy that she was the kind of person who got things done_, _often to her own detriment. And so her avoidance now was concerning.

"Can _I_ see it?" Luke asked.

Han wanted to smack him. Not for wanting to see evidence of Leia's power, but for the ruthless eagerness that he showed, even now, even as she struggled with who she was and to whom she was related.

Luke caught his glare. "It's just… I struggled with the physical stuff Ben made me do. I could _do _it but not like... that."

"Physical stuff," Leia quoted back to him and her tone was so dry, so dispassionate, that Han squeezed her hip instinctively. A kind of warning hastened by a flicker of annoyance.

The tone was enough to adjust the kid's approach and he turned as cold, as clinical, as Leia. Han wasn't sure that it was an improvement.

"Have you heard voices before?" he asked.

Han cocked an eyebrow but that was mostly instinct kicking in. Luke hearing voices tracked with the picture Han was forming. Now that he knew they were siblings, a _lot_ of seemingly-unrelated things had started to make sense. And while he had always known that Luke and Leia were diametric opposites in nearly everything but their willingness to protect the innocent, he hadn't realized how… how that could be a _good thing. _How his eagerness and her confidence supplemented the whole.

"Except for the dreams, no."

Luke leaned forward. "I can hear people sometimes, when they are angry or excited. And I can see their colors, like… how they feel?" Luke continued, struggling to maintain his objectivity. His voice once again verged dangerously into enthusiasm, despite what looked like his best efforts.

"Your processor is broken, then, kid," Han butted in. "Leia and I had to tell you about us."

He recalled the anxiety Leia had felt about the easier of her two revelations and it put some things into perspective even as it still angered him. He accepted that Leia was fiercely protective of her personal life, that her childhood and adolescence hadn't allowed for an easy introduction to sex or relationships. Han had had the opposite problem: indiscretion was a way of life on the streets. Honestly, who cared about who was sleeping with whom?

But there was a part of him, a very small, bitter part, that still didn't quite understand why it had taken a week to tell Luke and months to tell everyone else.

"I knew something was going on. I'm not _that_ clueless," Luke defended.

"Whatever you say," Han said. "The betting pool doesn't lie."

Luke scowled and Han tried to suppress his grin. Even now, with the fucking mess they'd all lived through the past twenty-four hours, the kid was fun to tease. Different from Leia—she fought like hell to win—but still fun.

"It _is _fascinating," Rieekan said into the charged room. "If you don't mind, Princess, I _would _like to see the holo."

She pursed her lips but nodded.

_Follow me, Little Jedi, General. I will bring it up for you. It is grainy and the footage isn't the best. Our belly gun holo-recorder is outdated but you should be able to see it well enough._

Once the three of them had left the hold, Leia exhaled and leaned back into his arm as if defeated. Han let her sit there for a moment, content to listen to their friends' voices as they disappeared around the bend, the slow quiet descending as the cockpit hatch hissed shut behind them.

"Bed?" Han offered.

She turned to look at him, eyes big and the questions in them even bigger. Her spine straightened as if she was sitting against a wall, her breath becoming shallow until she inclined her chin in agreement. Princess habits. A picture of infallibility and invulnerability.

He didn't buy it for a second.

"You're tired," he urged. "I'm tired. Let's go forget about the galaxy for a bit."

"I thought you might want to be alone tonight."

He blinked in confusion, thinking there was something important that he was missing. He was too tired to think in more than one direction and Leia, with her expansive eyes, sometimes pushed him farther than he could handle.

"C'mon." he said, standing and leading her by the hand to their bunk.

A short walk, silent, more real because of her hand in his. He felt raw, wrought: like a fraying rope or a rusting rivet. His mettle wasn't strong enough for discussions or revelations right now, when he was so tired. He didn't need complexity; he was cut down to his most basic needs. Sleep and Leia. That was it.

And yet Leia didn't seem to be of the same mind.

"They'll wonder where we've gone," she protested as she sat on the bunk, though he noticed she had started to remove her boots.

"No, they won't," he answered.

If he was this tired, Chewie and Rieekan must be, too. Luke might have some endless supply of energy—and had had a nice day of rest in the medcenter, too—but even the kid would realize that everyone needed some shut-eye. Let them chew on the holo and then come back to assess it later.

Han turned to his bare-bones closet and quickly changed into a loose set of sleep pants. He preferred sleeping naked when Leia was around, but he didn't think now was the time for any more mixed messages. He wanted to sleep and he wanted to wake up and have her there, warm beside him. And _then _he wanted to find out what the hell had happened with the twin thing while he was waiting in the brig.

But his brain was not going to function well if she started talking before he slept. There was a very distinct possibility that she would—

"Han."

Damn it. He knew that tone. He'd heard it before and it never inspired a ton of confidence in him. It was Leia's _oh shit I fucked up _voice and he didn't like it, didn't want it.

"Leia," he said, turning to her, mimicking her sad tone, trying to lighten her mood the same way he had annoyed Dodonna in the interrogation room. It didn't work.

"Are you sure you're okay?" she asked.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

Instinctive deflection, as old as his bones and born from his poor-as-shit childhood. The way he said that phrase felt off, even to him. There was a layer underneath the words that was barbed, like a blanket covering a vibroknife, like danger under wraps. All seemed okay on the outside but the daggered tip was right there, hidden and waiting.

"You aren't—you don't think it's strange that Luke is my… my—?"

"Brother?" he interrupted. "Nah, that's fine."

He could've kicked himself for the dismissive tone, the old, heartless bastard. But he just didn't have the mindfulness to be concerned about familial revelations at the moment. He had survived a battle, been arrested and held under enormous pressure and then had this thrown at him, too. He was falling asleep just sitting here and he didn't want to talk about any of it. Honestly, _why the fuck did it matter?_

She paused, waiting for more from him, but as far as he was concerned, he was done.

"_Fine,_" she repeated.

He walked over to the bunk and collapsed onto his back next to her, his legs dangling off the side. "Yeah?"

"It is _not _fine!" she said as she turned onto her hip to look down on him. "How is any of this fine?"

"I mean, it's weird. It's a giant-ass coincidence, I'll give you that."

He looked at her, the fatigue starting to drag him down and the knife's edge poking through the blanket. Her mouth hung open, her eyes fiery and intense.

_Expectation, _that was it. She expected something from him. And, oh, hell, he was tired enough to fall into the trap she was setting for herself.

"What do you want me to say? You want me to yell and scream with you about this shit?"

"Surely it bothers you," she said.

"Honestly, Sweetheeart, I've had a fucking _day,_" he said, wiping a hand over his eyes, feeling like he'd aged a decade in the past few hours. "I could care less about Luke being related to you. Not right now."

He didn't imagine he would care once he was more awake, either, but he knew enough about Leia to realize that he couldn't lie and say he was fine if he wasn't. He'd spent a year and a half accusing her of doing that same thing to him and she wouldn't let him get away with it now.

Then again…

Han looked at her, _really_ looked at the frenzy in those eyes, at the dogged obsession, and realized that Leia was absolutely not here with him. She was spiralling. His chest cracked even as the embers of his anger smoldered in their nest.

"The odds of it—"

"Leia."

"—why didn't we know? How could they have left us in the dark this whole time?"

"_Leia._"

"I'm _furious, _Han. I'm absolutely enraged by this whole thing—"

He'd had enough.

He thought about all the things she could be angry about. He thought about losing her homeworld, being tortured, fighting what felt like a righteous and endless war. He thought about how she lived her life, the tenacity he loved, the strength he admired and the humanity he cherished. And yet what was it about this Force shit that made her act so damned strange? Something about it made her isolate, made her avoid, made her forget that she was part of a group, part of a family who cared for her.

Something about it made her _selfish._

The word bounced around his head like a smashball in an empty court. _Selfish _was the last word he would choose to describe her. She was acting like a martyr, stoic but alone. It was sickening, sometimes, the way she forgot that she was a person underneath that mantle. He never understood it. He couldn't fathom how much others mattered to her.

But the Jedi thing was different. Something about it had always made her clam up tight, like she couldn't trust anyone to help her. And being alone had always been the issue with her: she made her worst decisions when she felt like she had to keep everyone out. Maybe she hadn't always been like this.

It didn't matter. This was selfishness, pure and simple, and the realization stopped him short, got his brain spinning out like a kid's toy.

"_You're _furious? _You?_"

The question spilled from him in uncontrollable plumes, like dark smoke. Anger crushed logic and he couldn't stop the words from spewing forth: magma from a volcano, the tip of the vibroblade revealed. He didn't yell, but the weight of his words was heavy and a very small part of him was shocked by the vehemence of his tone.

"Yes!"

"And how was _your_ stay in the brig, Worship?"

Pausing, she brought her eyes to his, still as a statue. And that somehow made it worse.

He was done with selfishness. He was done putting it aside for another day. If they were going to do this now, they were going to _do this. _

_The fuck you doing, getting mad at her?_

But he knew. He knew exactly what this was. He had lost the fight with his control after being pushed to the side again and again, after doing his damndest to be a good commander, a good partner, a good support system. He was tired. His body ached from sitting on the hard bench for hours. He was fed up with all of it, all of them, the whole situation.

She hadn't wanted to tell people about them. And that had hurt him more than even _he_ had realized. The fear that he wasn't good enough, that he didn't measure up to her ridiculous heritage, had crept in and sat patiently in his gut. It was stupid, he knew. Leia didn't care about any of that, but by ignoring it they'd only created a larger monster. And then his arrest had unleashed it all.

He didn't like that Leia only paid lip-service to his hurt. He knew she cared, _cared deeply_. He knew she loved him. That was a fact. In her right mind and beyond the blindness of her shock, she would have been more mindful of his needs. But at some point—_at some point_—she had to realize that what she'd been doing was causing him pain. He hated that it was happening now, his exhaustion like an accelerant to the fire. But it _was _happening and there wasn't a whole hell of a lot he could do about it.

Leia looked stricken, the fire in her eyes snuffed out like a candle in a hurricane. "Han," she tried, but nothing else came from her lips. She looked... _lost_. And he hated it, but he hated that feeling low in his stomach even more.

She hadn't listened and look what had happened. Look what had happened to them_._

Look what had happened _to him._

"I just don't understand," he continued, and while his voice had never been loud, it dropped even lower. "Dodonna was gonna do whatever he wanted. That's not on you. But the rest of it? We could have dealt with all this shit so much better if other people had known."

"They don't get a say about us," she said, nearly mumbled, her voice so hushed, so full of self-pity. "_That's _why I didn't tell them."

"Yeah, I get that," he said. "But not everything happens like how you want it to happen."

He saw the embers ignite, saw the hard-edged woman who was almost a stranger to him now. "You're telling _me _that life isn't fair? _Me?"_

"Yeah, if it's what you need to hear."

Her jaw dropped and Han was shocked to find her speechless. Before all of this had started—before twins and the Force and even before they'd admitted how they'd felt about each other—Leia would fight tooth and nail for the last word. She was a well-trained diplomat; words were her defense as much as his blaster pistol was his. Never, _never, _had he managed to silence her.

Maybe he was doing this whole relationship thing wrong. Maybe he was fucking this up. But he'd swear up and down that part of being a good partner was making sure that one didn't get lost in the mire of their own mistakes.

"We should've told Luke," he said, starting small. "That's all I meant."

"I think you meant a lot more than that."

He licked his lips, nodded. "Maybe I did. Maybe I'm tired as hell and could use about sixteen hours of sleep and a hot fresher and this whole thing is screwing up my plans."

Her face didn't change. Not an iota, not a twitch of muscle. He'd never seen her look this way and it terrified him. He couldn't read her at all. This was like a mask of a Leia he didn't know.

"I'll go," she finally said.

She got ready to stand and Han's heart nearly ripped itself to shreds. A thrum of panic swept through him, a deep fear being realized, like his lungs had forgotten how to convert oxygen into carbon dioxide, like his veins had run ice-cold. Essential truths of the galaxy were being torn apart and he couldn't handle that.

Suddenly everything was spinning out of his control and he grabbed her hand—not to stop her so much as to reassure himself of her permission to do so.

"No," he said.

There were a million things he wished he could have said in that moment. The words were there, on his lips, but they turned to vaporous mist when he tried. All he could do was say _no. _Not a command, not an ultimatum. Just _no. _

"If you don't want me here—"

"I want you here," he said. "I'm tired and pissed. That is not the same as not wanting you."

He was about to add _here, _but stopped himself. It was truer without it. Being angry at her and her stupid decisions did not mean he didn't want her.

The fire in her eyes, the hurt, seemed to grow larger. And then his words sunk in, penetrating that awful shroud of protection that he'd fought like hell to break through.

"You're not okay," she said.

"No," he answered. "I'm not. But I want you here until I am."

She sat down as he sat up and it was like they were finally—_finally_—speaking similar languages again.

"You have every right to be angry," she whispered.

Han nodded. "Yeah. And you got every right to be confused. Just don't take it out on me."

She dropped her eyes only to look back up at him, a request in that beautiful face that had returned to a normal spitfire, confident expression. And there was another plea. He needed sleep and so did she, but it looked to him like she _also _needed to clear her mind. The difference was that now she was asking him if he wanted to do the same, and it reframed the conversation enormously. Now it wasn't her concerns against his. It wasn't her fight and confusion against the slights made against him.

It was a kind of reckoning.

So he started small. "Why didn't you want to tell Luke about the marketplace?"

"I don't know how to deal with it," she admitted. "I'm afraid that everything will change."

He scooted close enough that their knees touched. "No shit," he murmured.

"I've spent my whole life being one thing and now I'm not that thing anymore. I'm not a princess. I'm not a daughter or a senator or even part of a culture or a people. I'm this... this _aberration_. The outlier on the map."

"And the Jedi thing makes it worse."

She nodded. "And _you _make it worse, too. Because here you are, an outlier yourself but you somehow make it look easy. You're the hero mercenary who became the hero commander and I... I'm lost on my own journey. _Failing _at my own journey. And I don't fail."

"Bullshit," he said, firm and uncompromising.

"It's _not _bullshit," she argued. "That's what it feels like."

"Okay, fine," he said. "You aren't a princess. You don't have a planet. But what's this about not having a people?"

"Alderaan is gone."

"You have an Alliance full of people. The hell do you think they're fighting for?"

She pursed her lips but didn't answer.

"They fight for _you,_" he said with absolute conviction. "Words aren't gonna make people willing to die for a cause. They need a person to believe in. They aren't here for Mon Mothma or Rieekan or fucking Jan Dodonna. They're here for _you._"

"They don't know who I am."

This was the crux of the problem, he realized. This was the hurdle, the barrier she kept butting up against. Leia knew she was the Alliance's talisman. Or, rather, she knew the tragic warrior-princess was.

But Leia wasn't tragic and the princess mantle meant less than nothing now. She'd started to find a new kind of normal for herself, had started to feel things again after the monumental loss of Alderaan. She had let him in. And maybe _that _she could have wrestled with, but then being a Jedi, too? And now a long-lost twin?

"Do you think people won't follow you if you're sleeping with me?"

He knew the answer to this question: he believed her when she said that she hadn't wanted to tell High Command about them because of her fierce desire for a private life unsullied by politics or opinions. And as much as he hated that he'd been arrested for something that was a stupid result of her silence in the matter, it hadn't bothered him that it had happened. As he'd said, Dodders was going to do what he wanted to do.

He had just wanted to deal with it _together, _not against each other in a war of who was suffering the most. He had just wanted her to listen.

She shook her head. "I don't care what they think."

"Do you think they won't follow you because you're Luke's sister?"

Leia winced but took a second to think about it. "No," she answered. "They might even like it. I can see it being a nice story, from a political angle."

Han agreed. He wasn't an expert on people, not by a long shot, but the twin thing was more a key that unlocked a door rather than unleashing the monster behind it. Answered some questions, created a lot more, but none of that was inherently dangerous.

Still it led to the last and most difficult question. "Do you think they won't follow you because you're a Jedi?"

A sharp inhale. He could see the struggle in the line of her shoulders, in the way her spine became rigid and her posture slipped into princess perfection. Carida had taught him a phrase that seemed to apply to Leia right now: _batten down the hatches. _Some ancient stupidity that had zero relevance to his life until this very moment. Like an old seafaring ship, she was protecting herself from the storm outside.

"Yes," she whispered. "That's what I think."

"Why?"

"Because most people struggle to understand the _physica_l world: what they can see and touch. An invisible world predicated on the whims of a select few genetic abnormalities? No one will understand that."

"The Rogues follow Luke," he countered.

"Luke is _Luke,_" she said. "Luke is ephemeral and naive. He comes from a place of want, not privilege. His story is heroic."

"And yours isn't?"

She shook her head. "Mine is tragic. I serve the Alliance best as a figurehead, a morality tale for those who think they can cling to their passivity in the fight against the Emperor."

"No one sees you and thinks _passive, _Leia."

"Well," she said, and waved a hand. "They don't see me and think _Jedi, _either."

He tried humor. "The old man was pushy and annoying when it came to doing the right thing. Sounds awfully familiar to me."

"What am I going to do, Han? Everything I do ends up hurting you, or Luke, or interferes with my work with the Alliance."

He chewed on that for a moment, not wanting to diminish what her decisions had put him through but not wanting her to beat herself to death about it, either. She couldn't predict what people would think about her newfound power, and stressing about that was a recipe for disaster, as they well knew by now. Who could say that being a Jedi would change anything at all? It wasn't like she could train. It wasn't like she could find a lightsaber and go off cutting people's arms.

She talked about dark wells of power. He just didn't see how she could possibly fall into one.

"Listen," he began. "I think you've tied yourself in knots keeping things from people and that's most of the problem. You ain't cut out for lying. And you don't do so hot when you're alone, either."

"I use to be a spy."

"You're a tiny, little thing and people underestimated you," he countered. "That's how you got away with it. Not because you're an A-class liar."

Her expression didn't change but her shoulders softened and her hand found his on her knee. She squeezed tightly, and then interlaced their fingers. "I'm so sorry you were arrested. I'm sorry I had a part in that. It wasn't fair to you."

He thought about clearing her of all responsibility again, of pushing her behavior under the rug, of elevating her concerns over his. He thought about it, and then realized that they were better when they were honest with each other.

"Thanks," he said. Then he raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers in a gesture that echoed tired genuflection but sitting here, on his old bunk, after the events of the past day and a half, had far more meaning. He just wanted her near him, wanted her genuine smile and her confident heart bare.

"You need sleep," she said.

He raised his eyebrows in an expression that clearly said _no shit. _"Best idea you've had in about six months, Worship."

He helped her undress, shedded the sleep pants he wore because he needed the skin-to-skin contact, and collapsed back into their bunk. Breathing in the fragrance of her hair, he felt the smooth warmth of her abdomen under his fingers, the rise and fall of her breathing against his chest, feeling the worry slip out of him as the moment stretched peacefully.

It'd be okay, he thought as he drifted off to sleep. They'd be alright.

—0—

He wasn't certain when he became aware of Obi-Wan's presence. Meditation dulled the senses as it expanded them, created and revealed some truths even as it shadowed others. He could taste the humidity of the environment against his skin, could feel the creak and moan of tired bones. And, too, he saw possibilities, endless possibilities, a galaxy of pain and joy and darkness and light.

And then Obi-Wan, full of old heartache and drowned hopes. Disappointment in every molecule of the dead man's spirit.

"It is time," Obi-Wan said. "You must help them."

The tired bones whispered their truth, the air swallowed him whole and he knew, _he knew, _the Force agreed.

"Time, it is," he agreed.

* * *

_Author's Note:_ _Chapter ten will be posted Wednesday, July 1st! Special thanks, as always, to the incredible _**AmongstEmeralClouds **_for editing and holding strong on the posting schedule. -KR_


	10. Wildfire

_Wildfire_

* * *

The news spread like flame over dry tinder, tearing through the ranks with a single-mindedness that would have been impressive if it had anything to do with the Alliance's war against the Empire.

And Luke had to admit that he understood why. _Anything _regarding Leia tended to be that way; what she wore, how she looked, what she ate. All of it was fodder for the gossip-channels. There was something larger-than-life about the young princess of Alderaan, something tragic and fascinating, and so it was only natural that people would latch onto the current news like a zaln's sharp talons gripped a field-mouse.

Oh, he got the looks, too; of course he did. The gossip was three-fold: Luke and Leia were twins, therefore Leia was Force-sensitive, and also Han and Leia were sleeping together. But, inevitably, the center of the maelstrom was Leia and he watched as everything unfurled around her like the inferno he wished it wasn't. Clearly, she wasn't handling any of this well.

Walking into the Rogue's briefing theater with a sense of resigned trepidation, he knew precisely what he would hear.

_Twins. Can you believe—?_

—_knew they were together—_

—_is it possible? The odds, man—_

And then they saw him and the whispers died down into nothing. He hadn't so much as opened his mouth and he could hear a pin drop. Unusual for the Rogues.

Moving to the lectern at center stage, he rested his hands on the sides of the small desk and eyed the hushed group in front of him. The best the Alliance had to offer, miracles in the cockpit, all of them. Courage to spare. The brightest stars, the most competent pilots with the thickest hides. They sat with discipline, orange flight suits donned and boots shining in the low light of the theater, eyes expectant, mouths set in grim lines.

"Good morning," he offered.

What he got in return was a muted chorus of _good mornings, _overly respectful and hushed. Luke rolled his eyes.

"Cut it out," he demanded.

And it was Wes—_of course it was Wes—_who broke the ice. "Do we call you Commander Organa, or Prince Skywalker, or—_?"_

"Very funny," Luke answered.

"What happens when she whips your ass in a lightsaber fight?" Hobbie chimed in.

"She doesn't even _have_ a lightsaber," Dak pointed out.

Hobbie shrugged. "If she wants one, doesn't one just show up in her hand? Isn't that how that works?"

Soft laughter. Luke let it slide for the moment, unsure whether the teasing would become unmanageable but fair enough to offer one warning before it did.

"You can stop now, unless you want KP duty for the next month," he said.

Hobbie sat back with a nod and Luke queued his presentation. "Today is moving day, guys. Welcome to your new home."

A three-dimensional holo glimmered in front of him, showcasing a white-and-blue ball of ice formally named _Hoth. _A small planet by most measurements, it looked like someone had taken a marble and frozen it solid, then thawed it out and frozen it again. It hardly rotated at all and was so far from its sun that its _ice_ had ice on it. Temperatures were below freezing even at the hottest time of day in the hottest month of the hottest year on record.

_At the very least it has water, _he thought as he brought up the planet's specs. _It's like the total opposite of Tatooine._

"Echo Base," he said, as an image zoomed into a rough holo of an underdeveloped and unimpressive base.

Somebody hissed.

"It's not much to look at," he admitted. "But we've been cooped up and complaining about ship life for months. At least now you'll get some fresh air."

"Will I _surviv_e the fresh air, though?" Dak asked.

"You'll be a Dak-iscle," Wes offered.

Dak pursed his lips into a comical kiss. "Come and lick me, big guy."

"Alright, alright," Luke said, knowing full well where this was heading. "Landing coordinates will be sent to your navicomputers. We'll land the X-wings and then switch to training on what High Command is calling _snow speeders._"

"Creative name."

He ignored the comment. "We drew the short straw and will pull the first scouting shift. HC's official line is that we're the quickest to train, so there we go. Clear your bunks and report to the loading bay in one hour. Any questions?"

Luke prepared himself for more teasing; there was a healthy respect for Leia among the Rogues, but this was considered a safe space to express concerns. Among Alliance squadrons, debriefs were kind of sacred. Squadron-mates bonded over them, teased in them. Debriefs were how they knew each other personally, not just as dots on a targeting computer. And if anyone was going to seriously ask about any of yesterday's revelations—

"Is it true?"

He licked suddenly-dry lips, fully knowing what Wedge was asking. The Corellian hadn't said much and neither had Salla, now that he thought about it. They had both been pretty quiet after the battle: a kind of pact not to talk too much about it, and the seriousness in the grim line of Wedge's mouth was sobering enough.

Apparently Han had acted pretty publicly on the barely-intelligible directives Luke and Leia had given him. Over the comm, no less.

_Is it true? _

He meant all of it, the sum total of the revelations of the past few days. Was it true that Luke and Leia had somehow warned the Alliance of Vader's presence? Was it true that Han had based every decision during the battle on the whims of two Force-sensitive, long-lost twins? Was it true, was it true, was it _true…?_

Luke looked over his pilots, their serious faces, the intensity in their eyes. He'd thought a lot about how much to disclose to the ranks, to his own squadron, how to weigh his and Leia's privacy against his own integrity.

He wished she had answered her comm this morning.

"It's true," he confirmed.

"And she's a Jedi? Like you?"

Luke hesitated. "She's Force-sensitive. We aren't _Jedi_."

Mumbles under breath: a low reaction, a note of surprise. He'd said this often, but people in the Alliance never quite seemed to get it; Force-sensitivity was a quality he'd been born with. Being a Jedi and wielding that quality in a functional way was another matter entirely. He felt more hope now, a flicker of excitement, really, to be able to share this experience with Leia, but he wouldn't call them _Jedi _until they understood what that meant.

Ben had been woefully unhelpful in that area, alive and dead.

"Look," he began. "I know it's a lot to take in, but I'd really appreciate it if you'd… keep Leia _the person _in mind when you think about gossiping like a bunch of Bothans. She's still, you know, _Princess Leia, _even if she's now my twin sister, too."

"And if she's fucking Solo," said a low, teasing voice, ripping through the air like a bolt of lightning. "Don't wanna get your lip split."

Luke blinked, feeling the first notes of true anger, not just because someone had felt the need to say that during an oficial debriefing, but because of the way it was phrased. _Fucking _was not the right word. It was a relationship, companionship, and it was a really good development for both of them, too.

He opened his mouth, commander-voice at the ready, but was beat to the punch by Wes.

"Shut the hell up," he said, eyes turned to the human male sitting behind him.

The pilot put up his hands. "Hey, man. Cool your jets."

"Just stop talking about her like she's a… a piece of meat," Wes said. "It's her business who she's fucking."

Luke winced but let Wes continue.

"And it's bad enough that Dodders arrested Solo right after he flew circles around the Imps out there, but it wasn't even a real charge! They _still _haven't reinstated his command of the Mercs and that's bullshit."

Luke felt a rising tide of aggravation replacing the gossipy pique that had run rampant around _Home One. _The interest in Leia's love life was not new—the Rogue's betting pool was proof positive of that—but the general consensus of awe when it came to Han Solo's unique ability to walk away from stupidly low odds of survivability _was. _As he looked at his pilots, r_eally _examined their facial expressions and postures, he felt bolstered by a changing tide of appreciation for the commander of the Mercs.

Luke smothered his instinctive smile, knowing he needed to demonstrate clear comportment as a commander holding a group debrief. And yet, despite his best efforts, warmth bloomed in his chest, calm and peaceful. The Mercs had accepted Han as their commander with relative ease: his roster had been extremely popular and he'd managed to enlist quite a few of the Alliance's best contractors. But the Rogues had been wary, reticent even, as they played sabacc and were willing to run supply missions with him before his commission. Leia had called it boneheaded elitism, but Han had shrugged, saying that he was used to showing people that he was worth their time right before he shot them dead.

And Han had been instrumental in the disastrous evacuation. Its denouement had been worse for him. But some hard truths had come to light and a soft appreciation for Han might be a long overdue benefit. The best part was that the Rogues didn't even know the extent of Han's courage and acumen during yesterday's crisis.

They had _no idea._

Luke hadn't seen Han since he and General Rieekan had left the _Falcon_ after watching the holo from Nar Shaddaa. He and Leia had been nowhere to be found since yesterday evening, and he couldn't blame them. Leia had been quiet and withdrawn when they'd told Han the news. When he now thought about the conversation, he felt a trickle of unease, felt like maybe he'd acted a little _too _eager to accept her as his twin. He hadn't meant to hurt her feelings but he probably had.

Since then, he'd heard that Salla had been given temporary command of the Mercs for the planet-side transfer and that Han had been put on leave for the time being. Even though Rieekan seemed to think it was more for recuperation than anything else.

In all honesty, Luke agreed; Han might need a day or two to deal with… all of it. Him and Leia, both.

"Look," he said to the Rogues as they settled down, as the wave of anger on Han's behalf began to dissolve. "We're all trying to figure out how to proceed. The best thing you can do for me, or for Han or Leia, is to do your jobs. Get yourselves safely down to Echo Base and start working through the snow speeder training packs that have been sent to your holopads. Once we're planetside, we'll hit the sims first thing, 0800 tomorrow morning. All goes well, we start actual test flight recons that afternoon. Any questions?"

No one said anything and so Luke dismissed the group, thinking that this was a new beginning, a place to start over. Maybe Han and Leia could find some resolution now that their relationship was public knowledge. Maybe the twins could learn about their Force-sensitivity and their shared history. There was so much they still didn't know about their family tree. So much they didn't understand about the tragic circumstances of their birth and the death of their parents.

_Hoth, _he thought. _Let's hope you can bring us a new start._

—0—

Leia awoke quietly, brought out of sleep by absolutely nothing. No alarm, no unsettling nightmare, no dark voice threatening everything and everyone she loved. One moment she didn't exist and the next she was safe and warm in Han's bunk on the _Falcon._

The familiar space was like a balm, the recycled air so comforting that she took a deep breath just to feel the expansion of her lungs. She hadn't yet come to full wakefulness, had no concept of struggle or time, and she cherished this quiet moment: alone, and yet not alone at all.

Shifting to her side, she took in the softly-snoring heap of Corellian in the bunk beside her. He lay facing her, shoulders relaxed, hair a riotous mess on his pillow, and full lips slightly parted in sleep. She itemized his beloved features, ran through them in her mind: dark lashes against the tanned skin beneath his eyes, the long slope of his nose, the scar that slashed his chin in the most ridiculously attractive way. Throat exposed, collarbones kissable even now, even in sleep; the biceps that extended toward her leading to a hand splayed on the mattress between them. His chest, muscular in functional ways and without the narcissism of body-building, hair-dappled and broad. Spacer-thick sheets fell over his hips, not because he needed them there but out of consideration for her much-lower body temperature, allowing a glimpse of the lowest stretch of skin between his hip bones, right before the rest of him dropped out of sight.

Catalogue complete—although she supposed it was missing the invisible aspects she adored about this man, his courage, his wayward empathy, the fight that lived in his eyes like some wild nexu on the hunt—she tried to remember the date, the time, what beautiful circumstance had allowed her a quiet moment in bed with Han during a time of unbridled war…

A catch in her breath.

The events of the past day scrolled by her like a holofilm, harrowing and terrible in their impact. Nightmares. Vader. Luke on the _Falcon_'s ramp and a battle that was not so much won as… as _survived_, itching on her skin like a rash.

Han's arrest.

Luke. Her _twin brother._

The last one didn't have the same effect it had had yesterday. Shock, absolutely, yes, and questions abound: had her parents known about Luke? And if they had, why hadn't they adopted him as well? Had the Lars known? Had Obi-Wan?

In a different moment on the _Falcon, _after Han had first said the word _Jedi _to her, she'd had a flash of a man, a much younger man than the old hermit she had only just glimpsed on the Death Star, waving his hand over her and saying a few soothing words. She now wondered if that had been Obi-Wan himself. And the long-buried glimpse of the kind but sad woman she'd thought she imagined and that Bail had insisted she'd never actually met? Her mother. _Their _mother.

But these weren't gut-punching, terrorizing thoughts anymore. They didn't fester the way they had before, and she didn't rise into anger or fear or horror as she had yesterday. Like the soreness the day after a session in the training room, this felt productive.

Maybe Luke and Han had a point about not being alone.

She let that sink in, tried neither to embrace it nor analyze it, but just let it exist. Returning her attention to Han, she strived to match his breathing, the slow rise and fall of his chest and the peace it brought her.

She'd hurt him. It hadn't been intentional and he wouldn't admit it, but she had. By not revealing their relationship to High Command writ large, she had triggered a handful of events that had done _exactly _the thing Han worried about most: judgment about his suitability for her. Separated _because _of that judgment. Forced to admit what belonged to her and her alone, that he loved her, that he was vulnerable to her pain as much as his own, that he was more human than he liked to admit.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to him.

Sorry that he had suffered on her behalf. Sorry that she hadn't seen through her own actions. Sorry that he had endured all of it because she'd decided her privacy was worth more than his pride. It trickled out of her now because it felt like if it didn't, she might combust—

"You better be."

She shouldn't have been surprised that he was awake but his show had been very convincing. Conceding his fake-sleep prowess, she smiled ruefully and slid closer to him. She could feel his body heat, Corellian blood running through his veins as his left hand settled against her hip.

"You're very gracious in the morning," she teased.

"Only when I wake up outside of a jail cell."

Awkward.

It wasn't like she was experienced with apologizing and so far they hadn't dealt with that kind of situation, anyway. How playful should she be? _He_ was the injured party here. The light of the morning brought her a new perspective, a fresh field to survey. Because what price was she willing to pay for privacy? And was it worth _him?_

No.

"My fears were no excuse to put you and... and _us _at risk," she said, and the words flew faster than she thought they would, staring at the deep green of his eyes. "Please don't think you don't matter to me."

"I know that. Nothing's _at risk._"

"Don't do that," she warned him. "Don't ignore your own frustration to make me feel better."

He opened his mouth in what she knew was a clear retort, but in a motion that said more about his feelings than his words ever could, he stopped and nodded instead. "Okay."

If she lived a million years, an eon, she would never be able to predict this man. What he'd do, what he'd say, how he'd feel. Unfathomable in the best of ways, except in his love and respect for her.

She gave him a tentative smile. "Thank you."

A strand of his hair had fallen into his eyes and she reached her right hand to sweep it back unsuccessfully. As it fell back onto his forehead—as stubborn as the soul in that incredible body—he caught her hand and brought it to his lips in the most genteel kiss she'd ever received in her life. The softness of it, the purity and intimacy almost threw her back into the pit of her own guilt. He seemed to sense it in time.

He scrunched his nose and sniffed in such a small, human gesture that she almost smiled. "Two," he said.

"What?"

"That's _two _apologies," he clarified. "How uncomfortable does that feel, Highnessness?"

She rolled her eyes. "Shut up."

"I bet you can count on one hand the amount of people you've ever apologized to, and now I take up _two _royal fingers."

Leia fought to hide the light that surely shone in her eyes, lifting them to the _Falcon_'s hull as if asking the goddesses for patience. Snickering, he hauled her closer to him, skin-to-skin, the contact more invigorating than any stint in the medbay could possibly be.

"Incorrigible," she whispered as she threaded her legs through his.

"Mm-hmm," he mumbled, lips pressed to her forehead, his throat so close that she could feel the rumble of his voice.

"Stubborn and ridiculous," she continued her list, well-prepared.

He slid his lips down the ridge of her nose, ducked his head to kiss her right cheek. "Sure."

"Courageous, I suppose," she whispered. "Smart."

He paused and pulled back to see her eyes. Leia brought her hand to his jaw, fingers rasping against the stubble she found there.

"And a good man," she finished.

He let the moment linger, watching her carefully: still and quiet. She saw him swallow, his Adam's apple working for a furious second. She knew he didn't have a great amount of reinforcement in this area; what he'd shared with her about his childhood had been utterly horrific. And she had told him that she loved him, had tried to show him how much he meant to her, but maybe this was what he needed more. Kind but honest words about the genuine wonder of the man in her arms.

He kissed her, a small, soft kiss. Closing her eyes, she returned her hand to his hair as he kissed her again and again, longer, fuller, sweeping her into his warmth.

For a moment they kept it small, manageable: the fire controlled between them. Playfulness gone, they were familiar with each other enough to know this was different. Not the ramshackle tumult they both enjoyed, the power play, the competition.

When he pulled back she followed, leaning into him with soft insistence, feeling the familiar heat flicker to life in her chest. More than anything she wanted reconnection, reaffirmation. She wasn't sure any threads had been cut in the first place, but the edges of this moment felt transformative. Healing. And if there was one thing her relationship with Han had taught her, it was that physical intimacy could be restorative even as it burned tension into ash.

And so she followed the line of her desire for him, the pathway forward that led her into calmer, cooler waters. She kissed him hard even as she held him tenderly to her, feeling the gratitude for who he was and what he stood for build in her. Her hand swept down the beautiful line of his body, over his throat, his chest, his hip, until she felt him hardening against her fingertips.

"Okay?" she asked, softly breathless against his lips.

He nodded, swept his nose against hers, kissed her again. Gentle, loving fingers against vulnerable skin, he caught his breath when she slid her palm beneath him and squeezed, gentle, gentle, always gentle, but clear in what she wanted.

"Leia," he breathed against her lips.

She withdrew with one long sweep of her fingers. Kicking off the sheets he rolled to assist her efforts, then focused on the undergarments she hadn't removed the night before in the frustration and confusion of their conversation. She'd fallen asleep in a camisole and pair of Alliance-issue briefs, not her preferred nighttime attire, but the weight of the day had made it impossible to care.

Now all she wanted was to be completely exposed with him.

He rolled her to her back once they'd gotten rid of the clothes, bare together and cocooned in heat. Sliding between her thighs, his hips cradled in hers, she ran her fingers up his shoulders, threading her fingers through his hair. He moved his left hand—ambidextrous always, she didn't even think he realized—to the apex of her legs, pressing soft fingers against her to gauge her readiness.

She knew she wasn't. She knew that the anxiety she felt had kept her from being fully prepared for this moment. A flicker of doubt: Han was always ready, _always, _nothing blocked him the way her brain sometimes blocked her, the way her brain couldn't shut off entirely, no matter where she was or what she was doing.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "My head—"

His kiss, hard and confident, silenced her. "Happens to the best of us," he said, and he lied, _he lied, _but there was nothing malicious there so maybe...

"No," she whispered and she couldn't stop touching his face, couldn't stand it when he ducked his head and hid his eyes from her, even in service to her own pleasure. "Just touch me."

He gave her a soft smile and Leia could feel how he didn't fully understand but trusted her nonetheless. He kissed her, his tongue slick and warm against hers as his hand disappeared down her body once again, lighting her nerves on fire. Tilting her head, she adjusted herself on his pillow as his careful fingers whispered against private skin. Overwhelmed, she caught her breath, breaking his kiss. His lips pressed against her cheek and then swept toward her ear, nibbling with teeth that knew what she liked. Starting slow, building in intensity.

Leia focused on the sensations he created, on the running heat he called forth with a practiced touch. His thumb found her clitoris and applied gentle pressure, a sharp spark of pleasure shooting through her body, settling deep within her lower abdomen, heightened by the scrape of Han's teeth over the lobe of her ear.

Sighing, she ran her hands over the muscles of his back as he shifted to the side to give his hand more room. She could feel his breath against her ear as he worked with expert precision, sliding his index and middle fingers over her sensitive skin, igniting fire as he went. Embers and bubbling passion, synched with his ministrations, like a stone buttress being torn down piece by piece.

"More," she whispered, biting out the word because they'd learned together that Han needed her bluntness in bed. Not subtlety, not hints. Directives.

Tipping his head down, he brought his lips to her neck, to the pulse point that sang beneath her skin and he finally slipped a finger inside her, then two, gently testing his progress. Her nails sank into his shoulder-blades and her breath caught when his fingertip reached a place that caused a sharp contraction of muscle, when he opened his lips on her throat and pressed the flat of his tongue against her skin. Overcome, she bit her lip, sighed his name into the warm air of the cabin, and shifted her hips toward his hand.

"Better?" he whispered as he continued, as he commanded a surge of warmth that rolled through her like ocean water, powerful and magnificent.

_Better? _To be the sole recipient of this single-mindedness, this fierce determination? It was breathtaking to be loved like that by this man with such intensity, such exclusivity.

"Please," she said to him in response, finding her words lost to the kinetic wilderness surrounding them. "Come here. Please."

"How do you want me?"

Leia paused, taking a deep breath even as she felt him continue his work. Her biggest need at the moment was to see him lost, to watch and feel him find his own consuming fire.

"I want to see you."

He pressed a kiss to her cheek as he removed his fingers and knelt between her legs. He wrapped his hand around her knee and reached for her pillow, slipping it under her hips in a movement that was so fluid and quick it spoke volumes about his need for her. Then, bracing her knees apart with his thighs, he leaned over her, pressing into her with an insistence that was so quintessentially _Han_ it would have made her smile if the feeling of him entering her hadn't made her throw her head back and close her eyes.

Fullness so thick it was consuming. A sense of widening as he nestled inside her, careful but also so sure in a way that was uniquely him. She exhaled and found a place within her that was purely physical, that could feel him within her body—hand in glove—like he fit where no one else could. An unstoppable force for pleasure and strength.

A breath, two, as they adjusted to the world-crashing feeling, as she memorized the back of her eyelids. Then a low, hoarse laugh in his deep rumble: "How are you gonna see me like that?"

She swallowed and smiled at his goading as her eyes opened, as his amused expression came into view. When he rested his weight on his hands, she framed his face with _her _hands, still too tall to align perfectly and yet that, too, was perfect.

"I love you," she said.

Dropping his eyes, he pressed a kiss to the skin just above her heart. "Never doubted that," he murmured into her skin.

And then he leaned back so that she could watch his face, exactly as she had requested. She missed the touch of his chest on hers, missed the controlled flame of his body. But it was either/or: she was too small and he was too tall for both close contact and a clear visual. And one of those felt paramount in this moment; a kind of repentance for the pain she'd put him through.

He began a slow rhythmic thrust, testing, adjusting. His hands settled on her hips and she reached to run her hands up and down his forearms. He looked haunting in the dim light, eyes closed, brow furrowed, focused and lost in his own sensations, and she understood; the feeling of these shallow thrusts—he never left her body, remained fully ensheathed within her—the cyclical rotation of his hips against hers was like an altitude drop in atmosphere. Her stomach plummeted and she sensed a precipitous freefall on the horizon.

Opening his eyes, he took in her exposed breasts, then glanced down where his hips pressed against hers and made the softest of sounds deep in his throat. She ached to press her lips against that beautiful column, to taste his skin just above where he made those sounds, but settled instead for focusing on the sensations within, the hypnotic plunge of his body in hers even as she kept her eyes on him.

"Leia," he murmured.

She smiled softly, squeezed his elbows. "Yes?"

"Know you wanna watch, but this is going to kill me," he admitted. "It's like you're a kilometer away."

His hips jerked into hers, more forceful than he had been so far, and Leia realized that he'd been tempering his pace for her sake, always ensuring that she was ready for him. She bit her lip, gripped his biceps and leveraged her weight against his. Catching on quickly, he slid his palms under her lower back, helping her sit up on his thighs. With his steady hands bracing her back, she wrapped her arms around his neck and brought her forehead to his.

"Better?" she asked, repeating his question from earlier.

He sighed then, as if a weight had been lifted from him, as if her skin had eased some pain within, and she kissed him before he could answer, knowing as surely as she knew her own name that, yes, that was better, that he had what he needed. His hands slipped to her waist and then lower, squeezing as he started a controlled thrust of her hips, as he directed her body against his own.

Leia loved taking control of their time together; it was invigorating and powerful and, best of all, Han took cues so well that she could take and relinquish the reins as she needed to. But here, in this moment, she recognized a need in him to set the pace, to have her close and feel what he felt honestly, knowing she would tell him if he went too far. She felt safe and loved and so she whispered a _yes _into his lips, an answer to his unasked question.

_Where are your words now, Han? _she thought.

And of course he didn't hear, but he _thrummed _like a plucked string instrument, radiating want and tempered desperation. Sitting on his thighs meant that he didn't have to duck to kiss her, that she didn't have to strain her neck in kind. Her position indicated shallower thrusts and she worried that he wouldn't be able to get the leverage he wanted. But orgasm was only part of the goal here, and she was pretty sure Han knew that as well as she did.

He broke the kiss to mutter a charged _fuck_ before he lightly bit her lower lip_, _and she took the opportunity to sweep her tongue to his ear, to nibble on the lobe, his hands squeezing her hips in response. Controlled fire turned into a frenzy then, burning a swath through the air around them, and she exhaled against his ear, unintentionally erotic, the chasm closing around her, her world pulling inwards, the outline of the cabin rolling and twisting into nothing as all that remained was the hoarse sounds Han made into her shoulder.

Leia bloomed like a fire-flower. She burst into red, beautiful flame tempered only by the insane urge to crawl into Han's physical body, to dissolve into him like ash, particles integrated until no one could tell who she was, who he was. Ridiculous and insatiable, and if she had been thinking clearer, she might have realized that she did somewhat understand what Luke meant when he said that he saw people's colors.

A heavy groan into her shoulder and she tightened her arms around his neck, holding them together until their flame consumed everything. They were a dual inferno, consuming and consumed, fed by each other until nothing existed, nothing but carbon particles milling together on top of the bunk's soft sheets.

Falling to his side to avoid pinning her, she felt bereft the minute he left her body. She understood that rationally there was no way to keep them merged, that they hadn't actually dissolved into ash together. And yet in one last surge of heat she wished that they could remain like this forever, that clarity came when they tore down the walls between them.

"Can't lose that," she heard him, soft beside her. "Can't lose _you._"

Turning onto her side, she noted they had returned to the same positions they'd started in: him on his back, her nestled into his side. And yet the difference was startling, too: the protections gone, the vulnerability sweet on their skin, the air, the sweat between them.

"Never," she whispered, and kissed the tip of his shoulder.

* * *

_Author's Note: I hope you are all staying safe and healthy. For those of you asking, yes, I'm okay and doing my best to remain so. Special thanks as always to __**AmongstEmeraldClouds **__for the thoughtful edits and contributions to the flow of the story. There is no story without her hard work! Chapter eleven of _Specter _will be posted Saturday, August 1st. Thank you! -KR_


	11. Equilibrium

_Equilibrium_

* * *

The _Falcon_'s hatch opened with a hiss and the cold air of Hoth hit Han with all the force of a proton torpedo. It bit into the exposed skin of his neck, into his face and hands, tore through his clothes like a feral pittin. He could see his breath in the freezing air, rising into the loud atmosphere of the loading bay like a billowing wind-sail.

"Oh, hell no," he muttered, once again shutting the hatch with a slap of his hand.

Out of all the planets and moons and space stations he'd seen, from the blazing hot deserts of Tatooine to the swamp-nests of Rangoroon, he hated the frozen ones the most. Heat bloomed and rippled through a human; it could be uncomfortable but it didn't pinch his skin, nor did it steal oxygen from his lungs like the cold did. And heat was easy to shake off: take a cool fresher or stand in front of a chiller for a bit and you were good to go. The cold made him curl up in his bunk for hours like a fucking glamloth. It took _time _to heat himself back up.

He'd seen the intel about Hoth, knew average temperatures and seasonal air pressure fluctuations. The day before last he had flown through a dense cloud cover to get to the planet's surface and into the hangar of a base that was a loose conglomeration of ice walls and supporting durasteel sheets.

He had known what to expect. The fact that none of that had really sunk in until this very moment pissed him off.

_Is something wrong, Cub? _Chewie's growl could be heard around the ring corridor, rumbling and deep.

Han sneered at the closed hatch. "It's cold."

_It is an ice planet._

"Yeah, yeah," he said. "But we risked our tails for a few thousand heaters. Why am I still cold?"

Sending one last dark look to the hatch—directed not at his beloved baby but the frigid atmosphere beyond her bulkheads—he then stomped down the corridor like a petulant child. He hated the cold. Corellia's streets had been a hell of a place to grow up but at the very least the weather had been temperate: relatively warm in summer and cool in winter, but the kind that could be staved off by a stolen coat. Hoth was not a cold night on Corellia.

Grumbling to himself as he passed Chewie, he marched through the galley until he reached the captain's cabin. He opened the hatch, swept his eyes around the small space, and when he didn't catch sight of his intended victim, he moved into the fresher, figuring she was probably finishing up her daily routine.

"Le-_ia,_" he said. It was almost musical—comical in its petulance—and he well knew it. "Why the _fuck_ is it cold out there?"

She paused her deft twists and braiding fingers to look at him through the reflector, brown eyes catching hazel, a note of fond exasperation dancing between them.

"Because it's an ice planet?" she said and then resumed the quick pull-twist of her wrists.

Stepping into the fresher proper, he leaned against the hatch frame as he decided that out of the myriad of places to be on the _Falcon, _this was the most interesting_. _He had to admit he had far more experience taking down her intricate hairstyles than he did watching her create them. The effect was fascinating: the way she tilted her head this way and that, the magnetic pull of her fingers through brown tresses. How a long, wild curtain became a braided coronet: how the beautiful woman from their bunk became the fierce monarch with something so simple as a braid.

As Leia continued her work, Han got a little lost in the finesse of it. Lost until she suddenly turned, quick as a whip, to smirk at him.

"Do I need to explain what _ice planet _means, Commander?"

He blinked, then the fire of his surly anger ignited again. "Yeah, no, but those heaters we got at Nar Shaddaa—"

"—are being used in the Command Center and bunkrooms," she finished for him. "Places where people aren't regularly moving and will need the supplemental heat. We don't need them at the landing bay."

He frowned. "I spend more time in the bay than the bunkrooms."

"For my sake, I hope you'll at least spend some time in mine."

Her hairstyle finished, she turned to him. She had on the no-nonsense make-up she wore when she wanted to blend into the Alliance ranks: nothing fancy, nothing too colorful. She looked pale in the harsh lights of the cabin and Han wondered if that might be part of why she didn't seem too disturbed by the cold that lay in wait for her outside of the _Falcon. _

And then he had the most amazing thought, full of hilarity and promises of pranks and teasing.

_Luke._

_On an ice planet._

"Did you read _any _of Carlist's briefs?" she asked into his mirthful silence, chipping away at his good humor.

"Nope," he said, playing the game. "Why?"

She put her hands on her hips and while there was real frustration under her words, her tone held more amusement than anger. "If your pilots come to my office and demand heaters in the loading bays, I will be furious."

"No, you won't," he murmured and then losing the fight against his needy hands, he reached out to grip her waist. "You only get furious with me."

She swept her fingers over his clean-shaven jaw and he wondered if she missed the stubble from the past few days. "Not true. I am still quite furious at Jan."

Han shrugged, pulling her closer. "He's an asshole."

"He arrested you."

"Ahhh, that was at least two days ago," he said, careful to keep his voice neutral, blunting the edge. "Gotta let things go, Worship."

Leia made such an undignified snorting sound that it made him laugh, too, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. He wasn't at all sure how today was going to go. Returning to command, to jobs and responsibilities for the both of them… he just didn't know what would be thrown at them, even though the charges against him had been dropped and they'd both been reinstated to former duties while they'd been holed up here. On paper, life was returning to normal. Just with a few new angles.

The fact that he and Leia were sleeping together was now public knowledge, and while that didn't bother him in the slightest, he knew it might cause some problems for her. It was part of the reason he had insisted on hitting planetside with the rest of the Echo Base crew but had sealed the _Falcon_'s hatches for a day until his commission was reinstated. That would give the Rogues and Mercs time to get the gossip out of their systems.

And, too, Han and Leia had needed time together to just _be_. Their entire relationship so far had been anxiety-ridden and filled with secrets. To have a few hours to themselves, to wake up without an alarm and drink caf together, then tumble back down into the bunk just because they _could…_

It had been like solving a riddle he hadn't realized he'd been working on. Having a secret affair with her—dodging detection and trying to be subtle—had been hot as hell, but this felt more permanent, more sustainable. And with Leia those words didn't scare him to death.

"Are you ready for this?" she asked.

He narrowed his eyes. "Going Jedi on me already?"

"What?"

"I was about to ask you the exact same thing."

She grinned and he felt relief wash over him. Some healing had happened there, too, with the Jedi thing. Before _yesterday_—the way they'd started referring to the evacuation and ensuing revelations, even if it had been two days ago now—she would have closed up like a backlam oyster to him referring to her Force-sensitivity. Her smile was a good thing in his book, always, but smiling about _this _was a big step.

He took a second to consider her question. _This _had a lot of meaning here: a lot of hidden truths had swept through the Alliance like an angry tempest. And knowing the Alliance as he did, there was gossip infused into the truths, too, so that no one got the actual, full, gleaming scope of what had been revealed.

"No," he answered honestly. "You?"

She pursed her lips and looked at him. There it was again, that narrowing intensity in her eyes, the expansion in her gaze cut down to just him alone. He was her panorama, he could see it. He could feel her shift away from galactic freedoms and down to him, to his safety and the concern for what he felt. The weight of it was heavy but equal in importance.

And _oh fuck _how good that felt, to be important to Leia. Another missing puzzle piece to the chaos they'd been living in the past few months.

His chest filled with warmth, and confidence slid through his lungs, his heart, the nerves and the veins and the deepest, darkest parts of him. They could handle this. They _could. _

"Ready for _you, _yes," she whispered. "Not the rest of it."

He felt his grin tug at the right side of his lips and he kissed her instead of letting it take over. He had meant for it to be a warm, soft kiss, initiating nothing but their first day back to work. Simple. Easy.

But that wasn't something they did well at all. When the kiss ended, Leia pulled him close and swept her tongue over his bottom lip and into his mouth, tasting of toothpaste and caf. Her fingers slipped into the hair at the back of his neck and in turn Han settled his hands on her belt—the smallest belt he'd ever seen, god, _Leia—_and tried to remember that there wasn't time to start things up again after they'd _just_ managed to pull themselves away from each other this morning.

"What time is your first debrief again?" she murmured into his smile.

Leaning down, he ran his lips up to the shell of her left ear. "The first one wasn't so much a _debrief_, Highness, I was already naked—"

She pulled away just to give him her patented _shut-up-Han _look. Grinning, he settled his hands on her hips. "In 30 minutes," he answered. "Not enough time."

Leia sighed, defeated by deadlines, but the lightness in her eyes was so good to him that it felt just like that old winter coat that first night of winter on Corellia. Except this wasn't stolen, this wasn't temporary, this wasn't his because he'd taken it from someone else.

_A good man, _she'd said. That was what she had called him. And for once in his life he actually believed it.

He pressed his forehead to Leia's, brushed a kiss there, and grabbed her hand to lead her out of the fresher. It might be a shit day but at the very least she would be back here tonight. No sneaking around. No lying. That was enough to give him some hope.

—0—

Leia's first steps into the Echo Base Command Center were full of bullheaded, stubborn pride, and she knew it, the ice crunching beneath her weather-treated boots as she passed through corridors of packed snow and ice shards. Half-finished light fixtures and haphazard durasteel support beams held too much weight and quickly-scrawled Aurabesh messages of impending danger could be seen on the hatches.

She didn't know what a _wampa_ was and she hoped to never find out.

And the _air. _Oh, the air was like an inhaled, frozen paralytic. It stung and it bit, ruthless and angry over her entire body, even the parts protected from direct exposure. Her nose was already a red, blustery thing and she couldn't feel her fingertips, checking often to make sure they were still there. The chill sat deep in her lungs; she held onto the sensation to remind herself to stay vigilant on this new base.

When she entered the Command Center, however, the air was warm. The comms were alive, the sensor displays hummed with activity, and at least six techs were seated at as many stations. There might even have been more down the narrow scope of her line of sight; she couldn't see it all. Early warning systems here; data storage there, there and there. Tactical databanks and central communications, row upon row of equipment breaking the range of what she could discern: all of it snugly buried in wires and screens that quite obviously needed heat to function properly.

And while it didn't at all resemble the order and sterility of the Death Star—the uniforms the staff wore were obviously mismatched and pulled together in a hurry—it did look and feel like a functioning nerve center of an Alliance base. From this room they could command their defenses. From this room they could anticipate an Imperial attack. From this room they could survive snowstorms and avalanches. Or so High Command claimed.

"Good morning," she said.

"Sir," the comm specialist said with a nod and then returned to her work.

Leia swept her eyes around the center. She identified engineering modulators and noticed the controls on several sensor displays built into the middle of the room. She watched a tech fiddle with some wiring in the corner next to what she assumed was the ion cannon feed. Ten people in total… and not a single one of them seemed interested in idle gossip.

She exhaled in quiet relief. _They'll follow you, _Han had said. She had believed him then, but it was good to know that he had been right.

"Your Highness."

She turned around and smiled. Holding his cold-weather gear in his hands and inclining his head in a nod, Carlist walked toward her. She had to fight the emotion that tried to bubble in her throat, the gratitude she wanted to express but couldn't. War had a way of smothering the tenderest moments.

"General Rieekan."

"Welcome to Echo Base," he said. "The heaters turned out to be quite the advantage."

She nodded. "Good. They were not easy to obtain."

"Nothing ever is."

He let her take in the activity—the humming of voices at work, the thrumming of instrumentation—and smiled at her when she focused on him again.

"Okay," she said in a matter-of-fact tone. "Status report?"

"We are at seventy-six percent optimum power capacity here in the Command Center, ninety in the bays. Southside generators are working well enough."

"What about defenses?"

His eyebrow twitched. "Shield generator is the first problem we have to address now that we're here."

"What's wrong with it?"

Carlist pointed to a tech station on the far end of the room. "It holds steady at forty-five percent power, but fluctuates from thirty to eighty percent when we push it."

"That's not so much a shield as a very expensive _net._"

The shield generator hadn't been her boon; the Rogues had managed that one with the help of that very mysterious Targeter agent who seemed to wander around large Alliance payloads like a phantom. From the specs sent to her early on in the planning and establishment of the base, the generator's power source was some kind of engineering feat—reactors scavenged from a… had it been a Dreadnaught? The details were fuzzy; she'd read them while Han had been in active seduction mode. In any case, because of suboptimal installment, the generator was a concern. Forty-five percent was not going to protect them from the kind of weaponry the Empire could bring to bear on them.

"Exactly," Carlist agreed. "I've requested a more powerful generator from Mon Mothma but she's put us on requisition hold until the rest of the base is operational."

She grimaced. "Great. And our supply chain?"

"Nonexistent. I suspect that is why _you _are here with me. You're going to have to start from the ground up."

Her lips fell into a grim line. Procurement was not her forte but it _was _something she was experienced at organizing. The Alliance typically used donations and captured Imperial supply ships to stock their bases: everything from bacta to food, and water to weapons. Smugglers, mercenaries, sympathizers… All of it had been arranged into a delicate tandem operation to keep the rebels alive the past months on _Home One. _

It was impossible work on even the best of days.

The network they would need on Hoth, though—the pure bureaucracy of it—was a staggering feat to contemplate.

"Do you have a list of our available contractors?"

Carlist didn't answer for a few moments, and she turned away from the shield display she had been studying to throw him a questioning look.

"There is no list because there are no contractors," he admitted at length.

Leia struggled to process the information, the general's grave expression. "Then how are we supposed to continue eating?"

She was only partially kidding. They'd been rationing on _Home One _for months.

"A good question," he said. "And one I'm sure you will take great pride in answering for yourself."

She fought the urge to groan. An entire base. An _entire _base with only the supplies they had on hand. How long could they last until she could find contractors to smuggle supplies to them? Six months? Four?

"What do we need?" she asked.

"Oh, a thousand different things. Speeders aren't acclimating well to the cold, so we're using a local species for scouting runs. We could also use more tech-insulation."

"Of course we could."

"Water won't be an issue, but we only have six weeks' worth of rations—"

Her mouth fell open in shock.

"—so I imagine that is where we should probably start," he finished.

Her voice came out completely monotoned, a war waged on her royal dignity won only by pure stubbornness. "Six weeks."

Carlist nodded. "Six weeks. Cold weather gear is fine for now but we both know how fast supplies run out when it comes to clothing. And who knows when or _if_ we will be receiving a new batch of recruits."

Her head felt like it was going to explode, the logistics of such an enterprise stumbling through her brain like it was weighed down with lead. Six weeks to source food and gear. Six weeks to find a new fleet of contractors, to find the fuel and the credits to pay for it all.

A nightmare. That's what this was. _A nightmare._

But Carlist was not done.

"The Rogues have been trained in the snowspeeders and have done three atmospheric runs so far, but they're complaining about sluggish maneuvering."

She tried to maintain her polite mask. "Aren't they always?"

"Indeed. And Jan has decided to remain with Gilad on _Home One._"

"He _what?"_

She lost the battle against her patience then, the tone of her voice so flaring and angry that the comms op specialist beside her jumped and looked over her shoulder.

"Echo Base is under our direct command, Princess," Carlist said.

She tilted her head and nearly demanded an explanation until she remembered where she was and the ears that had no business knowing about the cavernous divide between their leaders. "I see," she said with perfect aplomb. "General. Would you mind showing me where our offices are located?"

Carlist's eyes gleamed with not-so-hidden amusement but he nodded and led her out of the Command Center and away from prying ears. Down a corridor, something called the South Passage, into a circular nest of small offices, the temperature dropping noticeably as they walked, the durasteel beams shining in sheets of ice and snow, and Leia suddenly understood Han's whining this morning. The cold was the default here, not the exception. She would have to get used to that.

When they reached a hatch with her name scrawled on a piece of flimsy and pinned into the ice, they waited until they were both inside before the real emotions burst forth.

"_Oh, _he's a snake," Leia said. "What reason could he possibly have for staying on _Home One?_"

Carlist leaned against the closed hatch. "An even split in High Command. You and me here on the ground, Ackbar and him on _Home One,_ in a pocket of the Mid-Rim that no one's ever heard of."

"No one had ever heard of Hoth, either," she bit out.

"True," he said. "But I think the relative popularity of naval and terrestrial bases is beside the point."

Leia moved past Carlist to sit behind the only large piece of furniture in the office: a massive plastex desk that looked collapsable for easier transport. Eyeing the ice above her, she thought the desk would offer no protection in case of a cave-in.

"He's decided to avoid me entirely."

Since nearly three quarters of the Alliance's forces had been deployed to Hoth, it would make more sense for Jan to be here as well. And while Leia had no say in what the tactical side of High Command saw fit to do, her specialty—supply and procurement—should have been consulted about this change in personnel. That left only one possible motive for his decision.

_Coward, _she thought.

"Perhaps he doesn't like the cold?" Carlist offered, pulling her away from her old, bubbling anger.

Quiet descended as she considered Jan's motives. She didn't truly believe that the old general was afraid to confront the consequences of his now very-public elitism, but his actions threw his mindset into question. He had acted out of an ancient understanding of sexual politics, out of privilege and classicism, and he was sure to feel some kind of embarrassment because of it. As well he should.

But that didn't explain his decision to remain with Ackbar. He wasn't the type to avoid tense situations and Han was not in the habit of carrying grudges, particularly when he had been vindicated. He'd be an insufferable gloat but harmless in the larger scheme of things.

It all came back to avoiding _her, _either because he had violated her trust by looking at her medical records or because of the information he'd gleaned therein.

_Let it go, _Han had urged her only this morning. When had _he _become the emotionally-intelligent one?

She shook her head, making a conscious decision to fight the crisis of the moment, and grasped her humor with both figurative hands despite the onslaught of new duties and the pusillanimity of Jan Dodonna.

No one could overwhelm her but herself. She was bigger than that.

"Should I take this as a literal cold shoulder?" she asked Carlist.

"Relations in High Command might be chilly for the time being," he immediately replied. "Best bundle up."

She cracked, shaking her head with a small grin. "At least we won't have any debate over scouting schedules."

Jan and Carlist had been arguing for months over how to use the fighter squadrons. Equanimity aside, finding the right balance of mechanical upkeep and continuing education for their pilots had been a difficult battle between them. Carlist could now do what he wanted with the Rogues and Mercs without interference from Jan.

"That is true. It eases things for Green Flight, too."

She nodded, understanding the scrutiny High Command had maintained on the Alderaanian general's oversight of that particular squadron, the way they'd breathed down his neck about military protocol and dissemination of critical intel when it came to Han's group. Unfair, of course. But that appeared to have been a thing of the past.

"Thank the Force for small favors," she answered. "Alright. Have a seat. Let's discuss how you expect me to supply this base in six weeks."

—0—

She didn't have much time to eat since she had skipped lunch in lieu of finding her bearings in her new role on Echo Base. Supply and procurement was going to be substantially more important on Hoth than it had ever been on _Home One; _rationing of edibles, for instance, would be exponentially more difficult to oversee in such a cold climate, where a solid layer of fat could be the difference between survival and hypothermia for the warm-blooded Alliance personnel. Hoth had no natural resources to speak of; all food had to be obtained off-world, which cost credits for fuel and for whichever smugglers they could recruit to haul for them. And that was just for _food. _Never mind for weapons or bacta or fuel cells for the generators or the tech insulation Carlist had mentioned...

She still hadn't solved her biggest issues and suspected she wouldn't get much sleep tonight either. Too many donors to comm. Too many glances at the Alliance coffers. Too much to solve in one sitting, but she'd be damned if she would let this problem lie unsettled for too long.

Han had commed her twice, had sent her messages that bordered on enraged when she'd told him she hadn't found the time to eat. She would have tried to eat a ration bar at her desk for the dinner hour, too, if she thought she'd get away with it, but she knew she wouldn't be able to trick Han like that. He knew her far too well now.

When she signed off from her terminal at 1800, eyes weary and brain overrun with inventory data and engineering requests, the chill had crept into her bones, not helped by her mindless lack of food. Leia was gratified to realize that because of its proximity to the bunkrooms, the main mess hall was heated, but for one brief, glorious moment she stood still, soaking up the warmth like an amphibian on a sunny beach.

"Your Highness," a voice said from behind her, and Leia, opening her eyes, stepped aside to let the ensign through.

Grabbing her food—more than rations, thank the goddess, but it was still a congealing mess and she wasn't certain it was much of an improvement—she went searching for Han in the din of the hall. A hand rose, waved, and she was surprised to see Han utterly _surrounded_. In the very center of the room. With five people sitting with him at his small table and an empty chair across from him that couldn't have been more clearly designated _hers _than with a sign written in sixteen languages.

Making her way through the hall, she could feel stares at her back, but she chose to think of the attention the same way she thought of the eyes trained on her during political speeches: a kind of food all its own, fodder for brilliance. A result of good intentions and an opportunity to express truth.

_This is who I am and this is what we are, _she thought to them, proud.

Han's circle of dining companions included very familiar faces. Chewbacca, of course, blue eyes gleaming as he glared at her. She suspected Han's preoccupation with her daily food intake was seconded, and perhaps even surpassed, by Chewie's. To Han's left sat Salla, resting her chin on her hand as if the whole business bored her. Then Wedge, eyes fascinated as he watched her approach, and Wes, a broad, white smile breaking through like the sun on an overcast day.

And finally Luke, eagerness under strict control as he lifted his fork to his mouth. She had no idea what he had done in the past day, how he had processed their new reality. To Leia he looked like he was tempering his reactions, like he was trying so hard to be calm. It was endearing and she felt guilty for making him feel so reticent, so careful. The least she could do after their big familial reveal and the sullenness that followed was ease his mind over dinner.

"Hi," she said and sat down.

"Finally decided to join us mere mortals?" Han asked, then tossed her a crudely-wrapped package. Catching it in midair, she saw with delight that it was one of Chewie's baked goods.

"Gruesome was worried about you," Han continued.

"Uh-huh," Salla mumbled into her water. "_Chewie _was worried."

_You are too small, _the Wookiee growled, ignoring her.

Cocking an eyebrow, Leia was thrilled with the tone he used, his familiar rumble. "And you are too _big_."

Chewie grinned and the rest of the group followed suit, dispelling the tight, curious air that surrounded them all. She could still feel eyes on her back, but at the very least the tension had been mitigated by Chewie's heart and consideration.

"No lunch," Han said, never one to drop the subject. "High Command rationing food again?"

Luke blinked, then his eyes tore right to hers, worried. "That's a joke, right?"

"It's a joke," she confirmed. "The commander here thinks he's a comedian."

"_Hey,_" he defended. "I'm hilarious."

She offered a sweet smile. "You're _annoying_, is what you are."

Han made a show of dropping his fork onto his tray as he opened his hands wide, an outrageous look on his face that didn't go anywhere near touching his eyes. And then she caught the quick wink directed her way, the sign that his incredulity was for show, that he wasn't actually offended, that he was going to go along with her gambit to ease the tension.

No one said they had to change for anyone. Their relationship was predicated on interactions exactly like this one. The contention. The battle of wills. The only difference between then and now was that the conversation would end with a walk back to her assigned bunkroom and not a very public, very hurtful argument that would leave them both reeling and frustrated.

"Annoying, she says." Han's voice got louder, pulling others in, setting the stage. "_Annoying!"_

"You're being a little annoying right now," Luke chimed in.

Salla tossed her head of hair, wild and free today to stunning effect. "Come off it, Slick. We all know who the real star of the show is, anyway."

_Thank you, Zend. I find myself to be quite humorous, _Chewie murmured, the punchline and the deliverer all in one.

Wedge and Wes looked confused and Han looked… well, _annoyed, _but Luke, Leia and Salla all laughed, the dry spirit of Chewie's humor a kind of heat all on its own.

"Somebody better muzzle him soon or I'll shoot him," Han asked. "He's been like this all day."

_I have been like this for much longer than just today, _Chewie said. _Just because you have been sulking around for the past few months does not mean I have been, too._

"The hell do you mean, _sulking?_" Han asked, but Leia could tell it was more for the benefit of the non-Shyriiwook fluent members of their dinner party than an actual question.

"_Sulking _or _skulking?" _Wes jumped in.

"Both," Wedge answered him with a quick, kind look directed her way.

Leia frowned. "Definitely not _skulking. _Biding our time."

She turned to Luke, eyes questioning. He shrugged. "A little bit, yeah."

"I'm not clear on the rules, but aren't you supposed to be on my side here? Considering?"

Leia's eyes remained trained on Luke's and she could feel the air around her stretch thin, could feel the surprise laden in the mouths of everyone around them. Still, everything else dissolved into nothingness for her. Of no concern.

He blinked but otherwise didn't move, his stare contemplative, unsure. She hadn't been able to bring herself to actually say the word but she'd insinuated it in a very real, very obvious way. _Aren't you supposed to be on my side here. Brother?_

"Maybe I would be if you two hadn't waited a week to tell me and lost me the betting pool."

Like a thermal detonator, Luke's voice broke the tension into bursting peals of delight so loud that the Falleen sitting at the table across the mess hall looked up, startled. Wes nearly choked on his food, Salla's smile broke through her typically hard veneer, and Chewie leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

"You waited a week?" Salla asked. "_How? _Why?"

Chewie whuffed loudly. _Yes, why?_

"Don't _you _start." Han pointed his ready index finger at his copilot.

"How?" Wes repeated, turning to Luke. "No, seriously. How did you not know?"

Luke lifted his eyebrow. "I _knew. _I just—"

"Because even before I saw them in the _Falcon_'s cockpit, I knew…" Wes trailed off at the matching looks he received from Han and Leia. "... _nothing," _he finished. "I did not see you in the cockpit. Could have been—probably was someone else, you know?—and I wasn't sure which hatch I saw you leave that morning, Solo, could have been anyone's—"

Leia put a hand to her forehead. "Please stop."

_Cockpit! _Chewie said, then repeated it louder. _Cockpit! _

"I didn't, we didn't, no, pal—"

Salla laughed in delight. "Oh, _shit, _Princess."

Leia pursed her lips and sent a slow warning look to her friend, who immediately put up her hands in surrender.

Chewie was not so easily quieted, however.

_We drew a map, Cub! We set our boundaries for mating locations and the cockpit was strictly off-limits!_

Mortified, Leia's mouth hung open, gaping at Han and Chewie without a single word to say in her defense. Han's eyes slid to hers and though there wasn't an ounce of apology in them for hiding that conversation from her, she did detect an undercurrent of amusement.

"Who are you gonna listen to? Him or me?" Han asked Chewie. "We didn't _do anything _in the cockpit."

Chewie growled wordlessly to himself as Wedge leaned in. "I mean, why not?"

"Wedge, Wes, _please._ As your C.O., I'm ordering you to shut up," Luke said, looking queasy.

"Yes, please," Leia murmured.

"No, but that's got to be like the coolest place to do it, though," Wedge continued, heedless of their pleas. "That ship did the Kessel Run in thirteen parsecs—"

"Twelve," Han and Chewie both said, though they were busy glaring at each other.

"Okay, _twelve_," Wedge amended. "Like, that's sexy, man. You can't tell me that isn't sexy as hell."

Salla stuck her finger in Wedge's face. "You have _no clue _about women, do you, Antilles?"

"I know things."

"If you knew _anything, _you wouldn't have just said that—"

Their voices rose, accompanied by the nausea-inducing conversation that Chewie and Han were having on the other side of the table that thankfully only a scant few people in the mess hall could understand. Leia wanted to crawl beneath the table, embarrassed to have such a frank discussion about her private life voiced and speculated about right in front of her. Such topics were so far from the delicate nature of Alderaanian nobility and from the halls of the Imperial Senate, in which sex was only discussed for the purposes of blackmail.

And yet there was also something _accepting _about it, too, even as she fought hard not to let her blush consume her entire face. _Mortifying, _of course—she would have gladly eaten rations for a month rather than have this conversation in the middle of the mess hall—but also oddly solidifying. Affirming? Confidence-inducing?

She wasn't sure she could name the feeling. She wasn't used to feeling this way. Then again she was finding all sorts of new feelings nowadays, and she had promised herself not to avoid any of them.

Luke turned to Leia. "Do you want to get out of here?"

She exhaled, relieved, and nodded. "Follow me."

She picked up her tray and led Luke down a snowy corridor into the landing bay. The temperature dropped noticeably by the time she keyed the _Falcon_'s ramp controls, hurried to seal the hatch and soak up the environmental stabilizers' hard work.

Sitting at the dejarik table, she eyed Luke as he followed suit, looking gingerly around the main hold. It took her a moment to catch onto what he was thinking.

"Of course not," she answered his silent question, and then bit into something that sort of resembled cold mashed tubers but with even less flavoring. "What kind of woman do you take me for?"

Luke grinned. "More adventurous than I probably think?"

She didn't dignify that with an answer and let the quiet air surround them with heat and comfort. Belatedly she realized she probably should have taken him to her office; the _Falcon _was not her actual home, and she had her own quarters, too; eating there was perfectly acceptable.

And yet: _why would she do that? _To preserve some kind of false idea that she wasn't at home on Han's ship? That she hadn't relished the chance to be alone with him and Chewie before she returned to duty today?

_Let it go._

"How was your day?" she asked him.

Luke chewed a rubbery piece of bread and then sat back into the booth. "Flying those snowspeeders is like flying aerodynamic rocks. They lose altitude out of nowhere. No chance of an upgrade?"

"No."

"Don't know why I asked," he said with a quick smile. "How was going back to work?"

"Exhausting. We have a thousand supply issues. I don't even know how to start solving that problem. There's no procurement facilities here. No inventory. No contractors. I'm going to have to perform a miracle to get a supply chain going."

"_No _contractors?"

She smiled grimly. "Any of them who were loyal enough to brave the cold are on Han's roster. Everyone else stayed with _Home One._"

"With Dodonna and Ackbar."

"You really can't blame them," she said. "But it puts us in a bind."

She ate another bit of mash to give herself time to respond without the flame of anger that instantly arose at the mention of that name.

"I'm toying with the idea of contacting Prisht, just to see if she can help us with sourcing material but I don't want to have to fly in and out of Hutt Space for ration bars and soap. The cost of that would be astronomical."

"Why is it harder on Hoth than it was aboard _Home One?" _he asked.

"Because it takes months to create a supply network," she said. "Even if we could use our older donors and sympathizers to source the cargo, we'd have to find smugglers reliable enough to be given the location of the base. And everyone here has been assigned as _defensive_ for the moment, until the base is self-sustaining. Our shield generator is a mess."

And they only had six weeks of supplies. Maybe if she'd been given six months, even _three_, she could have pulled it off with some success. But where could she even begin to put together a reliable supply network for a secret base in the Outer Rim, with no habitable systems nearby to cull for resources and no trusted contractors or sympathetic fueling stations from which to find material? Not to mention she had _very little _in the way of credit or funds with which to buy said supplies or pay for shipping—

"What about the Mercs?"

She lifted her eyes to Luke's, tilted her head, "What about them?"

Luke seemed to shrink a bit. "Why couldn't you use them for the supply chain?"

She silently encouraged him to elaborate.

"The Mercs are co-assigned scouting and defense with us, right? But we don't have enough snowspeeders for both the Rogues and the Mercs. Their ships can't be doing much better than our X-wings in atmosphere, right? Problems with insulation?"

"Right."

"The only tech that is capable of doing more than just atmo entry on this planet are the snowspeeders, and Command already has us flying those rocks. What are the Mercs gonna do while we scout? Shovel snow all day?"

"Most of them are former smugglers," she murmured. "Probably have leads on sourcing supplies."

Luke shrugged. "Probably."

"And we wouldn't need dead drops since they could haul them directly from their sources."

"Freighters are also a lot less conspicuous if you scheduled them right. Anyone who sees them around here might figure it's a smuggler's nest."

"Prisht might be more willing to help, too, if Salla is involved," Leia added, leaning back in the booth, a small smile on her lips. "It could work."

He smiled back, jabbing the air between them with his fork. "Just don't blame me when Rieekan agrees and your boyfriend is gone all the time."

"Oh, goddess, _please _don't call him that."

"What am I supposed to call him?" he asked, teasing. "_Lover _makes me want to throw up."

Her stomach turned. "Me, too."

"Not your consort, not a man-of-the-night—"

"A w_hat?_"

He furrowed his brow. "Is that a Tatooine thing?"

Leia laughed, shook her head. "Do you mean _sex worker?_"

"You pay them and then they—"

"Yes, that's what a sex worker does," she said, still laughing. "You call them _men-of-the-night? _How very poetic."

"Shut up."

"Do they only work at night?" she pushed, delighted. "What happens if I want one during the day?"

"_Shut up,_" he grumbled, shoving a forkful of mash into his mouth. "You're as bad as your man-of-the-night."

"Man-of-the-morning, too."

His fork clattered onto his tray, outrage clear on his twisted expression. "God, Leia, _stop._"

"—the afternoon, sometimes, when I can find him—"

"No brother should have to hear this."

He said it with such ease that it took her a moment to realize what he'd actually said. How he'd identified himself. By his expression—his wide eyes, parted lips—she could tell he hadn't actually thought his statement through.

"I, uh, I didn't mean—"

"I am not ready to fully accept the Force-potential thing," she said in response. "Soon, perhaps. I'm working on it."

She set her fork down, leaning her elbows on the dejarik table.

"But I fully accept _you _as my family," she finished. "As my _twin._"

It was as if she told him that he'd actually won the Rogue's betting pool pot. Enormous eyes in a face that could hide neither the extraordinary love nor the eagerness he felt. And it occurred to her, then, that Luke Skywalker had probably resigned himself to never having a family of his own after losing his aunt and uncle.

_Their _aunt and uncle?

She would have to ask him about that later.

"That's good," he said with his genuine and starlit smile. "Doesn't it feel kind of right? Being family?"

"I don't know about _right_." There were far too many unanswered questions about their past for _right _to be her description of choice. "But I think I might like having a brother."

He held out his hand, palm-up on the table and she clasped it in hers, squeezed. "Good," he answered.

Removing her hand from his, she resumed eating the questionable meal in front of her. She chewed and chewed, thinking she needed to find a smooth way to ask him some questions about his family, _her _family now, how they'd gotten to this point. Still, it was a delicate matter and any discussion of Alderaan could spiral into heartache if she let it. Now was not the time...

"I knew you were adopted," Luke said, taking the first step forward. "Do you think your parents knew?"

"About you?"

He nodded. "I don't think Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru knew about you. They were always really secretive about my parents but, I don't know, I feel like they probably would have raised you, too, if they'd known."

"They sound like good people."

"They were," he replied.

Leia dropped her eyes, pushed her mash around her tray without eating it. The heartache wasn't going to be hers tonight, apparently. The same day that billions had died on Alderaan, Luke had lost a much smaller everything. It was easy to forget that sometimes.

"Were they related to your parents? Did they ever tell you?"

He shook his head. "Uncle Owen's father was married to our grandmother. That's what he said, at least."

"Do you know how you came into their charge?" she asked. "How old were you?"

"They always said my parents died right after I was born. I didn't even know about my father being a Jedi Knight until Ben told me."

She tried to imagine being Owen and Beru Lars, taking in a newborn who wasn't even of their own blood. She tried to imagine a scenario in which they'd known Luke's twin existed out there somewhere, a scenario in which they hadn't even known he had a twin. She tried to imagine how one old man fit into this picture.

"Did it ever occur to you that Obi-Wan might be your father?" she asked, slipping into deeper, more speculative waters.

Luke snorted, amused. "Of course it did. I've thought about that a lot."

"But?"

"The way he talked about my father… Do you remember what I said about seeing people's colors?"

She nodded.

"That's not a recent thing." He pushed his food away and clasped his hands. "I've always had this weird sense about what people were thinking. It wasn't much use on a moisture farm, that I can tell you."

"I bet it wasn't."

"So when Ben started talking about my father being a Jedi, I could tell he was being honest. The colors _did_ change when he talked about how he died, though, that Vader had killed him. It's always bugged me."

"My father specifically told me to find General Kenobi when I got my hands on the Death Star plans," Leia whispered. "Is it possible he was sending me to you, as well?"

"It's an awfully big coincidence that I was the one to get your message."

Leia exhaled and leaned back into the cushion of the booth, thinking. This was frustrating to her, these unanswered questions, the way she wasn't sure they would ever know more about their history than the fragments they had at the moment. Their last link had been Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan had had two motivations at the end: to bring them together and to keep them safe.

Which made sense. Vader had annihilated almost all the Jedi, all of Obi-Wan's people, his entire way of life. Like Leia, Obi-Wan had been a lone survivor of genocide.

"How did Obi-Wan know Vader?" she asked, curious.

Tilting his head back, Luke looked at the upper hull of the _Falcon. _"Ben said Vader had been his student."

"Watching over you might not have been about family, then," she offered. "It might have been about guilt."

"Or that he was waiting to send me off to fight Vader. I've thought about that, too."

She hadn't thought about that at all and it made her stop, made her heart crash in her chest. If Obi-Wan had been waiting until the right moment to train Luke, it had obviously been hastened by Leia's message. Perhaps she had never been a part of the equation at all. Perhaps Luke had been destined to be the Jedi hero and she was meant for another life entirely.

Maybe Obi-Wan hadn't even known she had existed.

But if that was the case, _why had the Organas adopted her? _If she was _also _the progeny of a Jedi Knight, they would have known she'd come into contact with Vader at some point. Why would they risk everything to adopt her when so many other children needed homes?

No. They were important. She could feel it. There was a missing piece to their history in Obi-Wan's inadequate explanation. Either he himself was their father or he and Bail Organa had plans to reunite the twins at some critical point.

"If Obi-Wan had been our father, he made a ridiculous choice in giving me to the Organas," she said. "There is a connection between my parents and Obi-Wan that we don't know about."

Luke tapped his fingers on the dejarik table, the exact tell Han had disclosed to them both just a few days ago. She smiled, then hid the expression. "Who else knew your father?" he asked.

"You mean, who else is alive who might know what happened?"

That was a short, short list. Carlist had been a part of the Alderaanian palace guard for as long as she could remember, but he had also been as surprised by the twins' revelation back on _Home One _as they had been.

"When you talked with Carlist about the holo of the marketplace, did his aura change?"

She felt awkward calling it an _aura, _but that was what Luke described. She resolved to learn more about this gift of his at another time.

Luke shook his head. "Not that I saw. He seemed as surprised as the rest of us."

Leia licked her lips and rapped her knuckles against the table as a distraction. When she next spoke, her words were resigned.

"Then there is only one person I can think of who might know something," she said.

He leaned in. "Who?"

Leia sighed, swallowed, then answered.

"Mon Mothma, of course."

* * *

_Author's Note: Thank you for your lovely comments on the previous chapter! They mean a great deal to me and are a constant source of motivation. The next chapter of _Specter _will drop Tuesday, September 1st. Thank you once again to __**AmongstEmeraldClouds **__for her tireless editing work. We will see you in the fall! -KR_


	12. The Name

_The Name_

* * *

"Hey," Han called. "Salla!"

The mess hall was empty, cavernous, echoes of his voice bouncing against the walls four, five times before settling onto the hard floor. All but a lone table had been shoved against one durasteel wall, and whoever had been mopping the floor had given up halfway through. Long streaks of heavy industrial cleaners had sterilized the decking on one side, but one side _only_. On the other, the remnants of fallen food still lined the floor. Warm air whipped his already-mussed hair but he didn't bother taking off his parka. He'd only been planning on a short stop for a ration bar before heading to the _Falcon _to check in with Chewie.

But then he had spotted her.

A sad shape hunched over the table in a dark corner near the back. Salla was illuminated only by one low-hanging light. A spacer's shirt hung from her shoulders, dark blue like the last wisps of atmosphere before vacuum, untucked and wrinkled, with one too many buttons undone down the front. She had been holding her head in her hands, elbows resting on the table, and the sudden call made her jump and then focus on him with a scowl.

"What do you want?" she growled.

Making his way toward her, he noted the edge to her words, the crisp splice that bit into her usually dry, ironic tone.

"So polite," Han said. "So charming. How _do _you do it, Sal?"

Her sour expression didn't change, although the tension in her shoulders seemed to dissipate a little. "Oh, I charm people alright. I charm them right before I kill 'em."

Grinning, he flipped a chair around and sat down on it backwards. It was early and the shifts wouldn't change for another ninety minutes, so the mess hall was deserted. The half-assed sterility numbed him from the inside out, the durasteel beams looking for all the universe like the ribs of a giant beast—like they were being dissolved inside a rancor's stomach—and he found the thought to be oddly… Comforting?

It reminded him of hyperspace. Shrewd utility. Brutality.

"Why're you up?" he asked, eyeing her slumped shoulders and the grim twist to her lips.

Blowing out her breath, she tossed her loose hair behind her shoulders. She wore it down much more often since signing her commission and becoming his XO. Before, wild and curly and free around her head, he'd thought of it like a cloud. But today, for the first time, he thought it might be more like a curtain. She wore it up when she was fighting, down when she was more open. More vulnerable. When she might need something to hide behind.

_Like the opposite of Leia. _

"I'm fine," she said.

"Bullshit."

Nobody chose to sit in this room alone; it was for food and for people.

"_You're _bullshit," she answered him.

"I'm not the one moping around in the mess at 0500. Spit it out."

She rolled her eyes at him and he kicked her under the table.

"Fuck_, _god, _fine_. I miss her," she snapped. "Happy?"

Han dropped the act immediately. He knew who the _her _in question was, picturing the purple-skinned Chev he'd met months ago. And he also knew that it had been awhile since Salla had been free to leave and visit Prisht.

"Course you do," he said.

Salla sighed and leaned back in her chair. "I feel pathetic."

"Nah," he said, shaking his head. "Not pathetic."

"It's not even a real thing," she said, and it was almost like Han wasn't there. This was Salla at her most raw, her most bare. "It's casual and it was always supposed to stay that way, but… here I am."

He nodded. "Moping."

"Fuck you. I'm not moping."

"You're moping," he said with the insufferable grin Leia had told him in confidence was attractive _in an entirely annoying way, Commander_. "But I get it."

She looked up at him, her orange eyes challenging. "You _don't_ get it. Your person is right here, on base."

Considering that, his eyes slid to the side and he tried to remember the days before Leia had been _his person. _She'd been untouchable, a paradigm of upper-class society, smart and courageous and so far beyond what he knew he deserved that it had been more like a game, like a swoop race against fate. Like he was in on the joke of his own fruitless longing for more.

That was how he had played it in public, at least. Privately, however, he had felt the same way Salla looked to him now. Glum. Alone. Hopeless, even. It was hell being constantly reminded that a gulf existed between you and the person you loved. In his case, it had been an invisible crevasse; for Salla, it was a far more literal divide.

Too much of that mood wasn't a good thing, though. Dark thoughts and self-pity had a way of coloring a person's whole viewport, and made things that weren't ugly look like they were. Fucked with perspective. And he needed Salla sharp. He needed his XO on point.

Han decided that what Salla needed was friendship. "She wasn't always _mine_," he shrugged. "And I don't mind if you're moping. Would have already left if I did."

Salla seemed to struggle with herself for a moment. Fidgeting, she tugged at the collar of her shirt, uncrossed and recrossed her legs. She wasn't usually restless in her interactions with other people. When she was uncomfortable, she said so.

"Need me to leave?" he asked, unsure.

"Would you actually go if I did?"

"Maybe."

"That's what I thought," she replied, unamused. "Just sit there and let me mope."

"Maybe I can help," he offered.

She glared at him.

"The Mercs are being transferred to work Supply. Apparently no one thought about getting food and weapons onto this rock before they shipped us out."

"Of course they didn't," she said. "We have more idealism than ideas in this disaster of a rebellion."

He cracked a smirk but continued his spiel. "And we're not just doing freight," he intimated. "We're creating the whole damn supply chain ourselves."

She tilted her head. "No shit?"

"No shit. We'll be hauling freight like before but we'll have to source it, too. Meaning we'll need you to—"

Her widening grin interrupted him as surely as if she had spoken, and that was amazing to Han. He genuinely cared for Salla Zend and it was nice to see her excitement. That was a forbidden feeling, like fear, and he felt gratified to be allowed to see it.

"Do you think she'll do it?" he asked, picking up the thread of where he left off.

"If she knows what's good for her, she will," Salla said. "You'll approve the trip?"

He nodded. "We'll go ourselves: you, me and Chewie."

Salla's words belied her expression. "My chaperones?"

"I need your help for the next couple of days, setting up a shipping schedule. Rieekan and Leia keep calling this _collaborative, _so we gotta ask the kids where their connections are, too. Shield generator parts and insulation are the top priorities."

"What's wrong with the generator?"

He shook his head. "Don't ask. It ain't good."

"Food?"

"Well, yeah," he admitted. "Definitely need some of that, too."

She sat back. "I got a girl for food; I'll reach out to her."

"Another girl?"

"Girls make the best smugglers. You know that, Slick," Salla said with a grin.

He opened his mouth to disagree, reconsidered it, and then trudged on. "With any luck, we can get you to Nar Shaddaa for the first run in a couple of days."

Salla's eyes were beautiful, sad and soft, and glimmering with hope, and they made him want to pull her into his arms and comfort her. He kicked her shin again instead.

"Ah, shut up," he repeated and stood up to leave_. _"Your sappiness is getting all over the floor."

"Fuck you," she called cheerfully after him as he snagged his ration bar and bit into it, leaving the hall with a grin she couldnt't see.

—0—

Apparently, Mon Mothma was a tough woman to reach. Luke knew her current location was a closely-guarded secret within High Command, and even Leia didn't know exactly where she was hiding.

"I know a frequency code," she had said. "But we will have to be careful."

Sitting in the copilot's seat in the cockpit of the _Millennium Falcon, _his sister looked small and yet somehow imposing. She spoke with an edge that sounded to him like she was mildly inconvenienced, but that was a protective tone, he had learned, meant to hide her nerves from others, meant to demonstrate superior restraint. She looked like a character from those old stories he and Biggs had shown each other as kids, of far-away planets with kings and queens and, yes, princesses, too.

_This _princess had not trusted the Command Center's tech equipment to make the call, so Luke, Han and Leia had crammed themselves into the _Falcon_'s cockpit. Because the galactic black market had a vested interest in supplying technology that could evade Imperial attention, her comm system was better secured from detection than most. Risky venture all around, of course, but they had a higher probability of success here.

That, and they didn't know what Mon Mothma might say; Leia worried it could be something the comm specialist on duty should not hear.

On the other end of the spectrum was Luke, who could barely contain his excitement. Every new revelation he received was like a hit of spice to his nervous system; he craved _more_. At his core lived a desperate desire to know where he came from, and since Ben had confirmed that his story was larger than just a moisture farm on Tatooine, he'd become addicted to the idea of destiny, his own storybook-like tale of bravery and tragedy that made him unique, special.

Two years of war, destruction and death had tempered that idea somewhat, but it hadn't killed it entirely. He still yearned to know who he really was. Discovering that he had a living, breathing relative right here next to him—his very best friend in the whole galaxy, even, what were the odds?—had reignited any excitement he'd felt about his role in the rebellion, the fight against tyranny and evil.

"You need to calm down, kid," Han said as he fiddled with the comm controls.

Luke shrugged. "I'm calm."

"Like hell you are. She might not pick up."

"I know that, Han."

Leia turned around in the copilot's seat, sharing Han's warning expression. "And even if she does answer, she might not know anything at all. I'm only saying that she knew my father when we were born, not that she knew anything about _us._"

"I know that, too," he said. "Guys. I'm not an idiot."

"_Most _of the time," Han muttered under his breath. "Alright. Here goes nothin'."

An audible scramble burst from the comm speakers, scratching at Luke's inner ear like a talon. He fought to keep his hands in his lap and focused instead on the concentrated look on Han's face. The older man was leaning over the controls, peering at the scrambler with a kind of sour grimace.

Seconds ticked by. Luke glanced at Leia and when she caught his gaze, he nodded to Han's back. She pursed her lips, furrowed her brow.

"What?" she asked.

"When does he leave for Nar Shaddaa?"

She grimaced. "Tomorrow morning. He doesn't want to talk about it."

"Sure don't," Han interjected. "Stop talking about me like I'm not here."

"That was fast. How'd you talk Salla into it?"

"She has a vested interest," Leia answered Luke. "And we need supplies badly."

"You sure you can trust the good commander, though? With such an important job?"

He was kidding, of course, teasing Han and Leia about the weird dynamics of their relationship among the command structure of the Alliance. Technically speaking, she outranked them both by a few margins. And they were still at the heart of the gossip mill in the Alliance, all of them; eyes followed them as they went about their business. It was nice to push them a little, to share in the experience.

Plus, Han could always use a little ribbing.

"You're getting on my nerves," Han growled, still hunched over the comm array.

Luke shrugged and returned his focus to Leia. "I was thinking that it might be nice to do some training together. Compare notes. Since this guy won't be taking up all your time."

He had baited them, intentional and sly, and was proud when they shared a look that clearly communicated uncertainty about their priorities. It wasn't fair to say that they'd _abandoned _him and Chewie; he knew how new relationships worked within an established friend group.

Well. He'd _read _about it. There hadn't exactly been a "group of friends" to have in the Jundland Wastes.

Was he hanging out with them as much as he had been before? No. But that was okay. The opportunity to tease them both more than made up for it.

"Sure," Leia finally said. "Compare notes."

He peered a little closer, tried to peel away layers and layers of shielding around her physical form. She had never been particularly hard for him to read but sometimes it felt like her emotional shielding was more routinely fortified than even the physical one. She was a fierce warrior—capable of great strength for her size and build—but her mental barriers far surpassed even _that. _Her training, or maybe her trauma, made her achingly difficult to read at times.

She was unsure about something, that much was obvious. It could be Han and Chewie lifting off in the morning. It _could. _But it could also be that she wasn't entirely ready to train with him as potential Jedi yet. She had every right to be wary of the proposition, especially since they didn't know how to even begin.

Either way, he needed to try harder not to push her too far, too fast. He'd seen what happened when Han did that, and Luke didn't want any part of it.

"Where's Chewie?" he asked in an attempt to dispel the sudden tension in the room.

The fact that it was _Leia _in the copilot's chair and not the Wookiee—even if the _Falcon_'s struts were firmly planted in the docking bay—was odd. There were unspoken rules aboard this ship.

"Killed him," Han grunted. "Was a nice service. Planted a tree in his honor."

Leia rolled her eyes. "Han is still angry with him for believing Wes."

"About the cockpit?"

"About _everything,_" she replied. "Don't ask."

Luke dropped the subject, remembering past disagreements that had plagued the crew of the _Falcon _all too well_. _Han and Chewie acted more like siblings than Luke and Leia did by a wide margin, and it was best to leave sleeping nreks lie when it came to captain and first mate. Yet another unspoken rule.

"The signal is there," Han said too loudly. "You sure the frequency—?"

"Identify yourself."

The voice was loud, deep and threatening, and all playfulness dropped like a stone thrown over a cliff. Eyes widening, Luke turned a quick, panicked look to Leia as Han nudged her leg with his.

"This is Pearl," she said and threw an annoyed look Han's way. "My security code is three-six-four-four-alpha-zero-charlie. We are on a secure frequency."

A pause, then a different voice. "State your business."

"Tell her my code name. She'll take my call."

Luke was entranced and mystified by the spycraft of the whole thing, the way Leia slipped into command mode so easily. It was a side of her he knew existed but garnered such weight that _no one _could deny her what she wanted. Sometimes he had to remind himself that she wasn't only a princess from a rich Core world; she had also been a teenaged Imperial senator and a spy for the Alliance to boot.

"Pearl."

Female. Mature. And weighed down by a thousand burdens. He'd heard Mon Mothma's voice only twice before, once shortly after the Battle of Yavin, when she had thanked him personally via secure comm frequency. It had been short—perfunctory—and he'd had little to do but say _you're welcome _and then let her move on to speak with her generals. The other time she had been touring an Alliance base—_gods, _had it been on Camarra? Filippi? He couldn't remember—and he had been one of hundreds of people who'd watched adoringly from his spot on the loading bay deck.

Both times her voice had been soothing, calming, in control. From what Leia had told him, Mon Mothma was not an unkind woman but one with a nearly singular focus; her skills did not lie in active combat but in recruitment, in fundraising, in telling the stories of the front lines to the masses too terrified to rebel. Everyone had a purpose within the Alliance, and that was where Mon Mothma excelled.

She was also the last founding member of the Alliance to still be operational. Some had died, some had been frustrated by the slow progress of the war and moved into independent guerilla-style tactics in their own systems. And some had simply been silenced, retired to Outer Rim planets to rot away in obscurity.

With just one word, he could hear it all in her voice. The weight, the burden and the loss, as it gathered on her shoulders.

"Ma'am," Leia replied, and it was like a younger echo of Mon Mothma herself, saddled by her own shackles. "We need information."

"We?"

"I am with my two men."

Han made a rude gesture to Leia. _Yours? _He mouthed to her and she pushed his hand away. _Mine, _she mouthed back to him. Luke snorted in amusement, then covered his mouth with his hand to muffle his laughter.

"I see," Mon Mothma said. "What information do you need?"

"I assume you have heard about our most recent revelations?"

Mon Mothma did not hesitate in answering in the affirmative, and Luke assumed with a certain amount of heat that General Dodonna had filled her in.

Indomitable, Leia continued. "What do you know about my birth parents?"

The silence that followed was a living thing, pregnant with meaning but with no context to what lay within. They waited, quiet: anticipation resting in the set of their shoulders. Luke thought it was weird that she was taking so long; it was a scrambled frequency, sure, but Han had made certain it wasn't traceable. And Leia would never put Mon Mothma in danger with a reckless call. Surely she knew that.

"I made a promise."

Luke's heart jumped to his throat as he fought to remain an impassive listener. _A promise. _

"To whom?" Leia asked.

"The viceroy."

Luke sucked in a breath. Bail Organa had known something. And yet as much as he wanted to sit with this information, to savor the revelation as if a gift on Life Day, he was immediately distracted by Leia's quick, biting words.

"What was the promise?"

Another pause, shorter this time. "To reunite you if the viceroy was killed. To bring you to General Kenobi myself."

Luke couldn't help himself. "_Reunite us? _You knew we were… _you knew?_"

It was like he could hear Leia's thoughts. _You knew he was my brother? You knew. And you didn't tell me? _There it was again, that crack in her walls, the way her shield wobbled and was restructured again. Leia was never a static being to him; constantly moving, she was a churning wildfire beneath her calm facade.

"I knew you had a brother, but I didn't know his name."

Leia's eyes shot to his, then back to the comm array.

"I _also _didn't know you were related to General Skywalker. I had thought… well, it doesn't matter now what I thought."

Leia's lips opened in surprise, Han hissed in a rush, but Luke was decisive. "You knew him? You knew my father?"

His heart was full to bursting, questions zinging through his head at lightspeed. _A general, _he thought. _He was a general._

"I knew him by reputation only," she said. "I knew he and General Kenobi were close. I can only assume that you are his progeny and that General Kenobi guarded you for his fallen friend. Other than that, I'm afraid I know little else."

"No, please," Luke said, leaning so far out of his seat that he should have fallen. "Please. Who was he? How did he—?"

"I'm sorry," she interrupted before Luke could finish his question. "Anything else I have for you is pure speculation."

Luke opened his mouth to press further but Leia turned heated eyes on him until he sat back in his seat.

"Thank you," she said, and then nodded to Han to disconnect the comm.

Luke watched, disappointed but full to brimming with his own thoughts about the one new piece of information he'd gleaned from Mon Mothma.

_General Skywalker._

A name. A confirmation of sorts. He'd been well-known enough for a junior senator from Chandrila to know his name. Not to mention whatever role Leia's father had played. Had Ben been a kind of intermediary, maybe, between the Jedi and the Senate? Was that how it worked? Is that how he'd known to give Leia to Viceroy Organa?

_General Skywalker._

"You two okay?" Han asked.

Luke was exultant. He felt like he could levitate if he tried, that he was full to bursting with energy and pride. A general. And someone who had been known to all these important people, these senators on the right side of history.

But Leia's voice pierced his mental hurricane like a light beam in a dark room. Quiet but direct.

"My father knew about you, Luke," she continued. "He made her promise to reunite us."

Luke leaned forward, absorbing Leia's words with care, but his heart still fluttered with excitement.

And then the devastating blow, delivered with such heartbreak that Luke's stomach sank.

"He lied to me."

He was terrified of that dead tone of her voice, the one he remembered from the day Jan Dodonna first told them they were twins. He hated the flavor of powerlessness that lined its edges. He hated that his sister, such a competent, formidable person, could be so hurt. For Luke, this was all gain. For Leia, it was all loss.

"They were protecting us," he offered, trying to help, trying to bring light to the dark moment. "Vader was out there killing Jedi. They must have thought that two Force sensitive children raised together would be too obvious. That he would sense us."

_He found us on _Home One, _after all_, Luke thought but didn't say.

"Protect you from what, though?" Han asked. "It seems like a lot of secrecy for two infants, if you ask me."

Leia was on the same track. "People don't form conspiracies for no good reason, Luke. We were separated and hidden. That is an _extreme _reaction to something."

As Han and Leia spoke in quiet whispers, Luke, gnawing on that insight, tried to glean more information from the scraps they'd been fed. But his brain was a constantly-winding circle, returning back to the most interesting information _he _had heard from the call, the one piece of the puzzle that satisfied a hunger he hadn't been able to satiate since Ben had died.

_General Skywalker, _he thought over and over, like a mental refrain.

_General Skywalker._

—0—

The quiet stillness of the night on Echo Base found Han and Leia dreading the morning, and doing everything they could to forget what it would bring. Ensconced in her assigned bunkroom, with the door locked, they whispered easy things to each other, tried to be hopeful, even though their efforts were in vain. Reality existed outside of their private bubble, a bubble that was about to be rather violently burst.

Pressing his groan into the sweat-salt skin of her shoulder, Han felt the air leave his lungs in one short exhale, his lips finding hers again through the rampaged coronet of hair he'd destroyed just thirty minutes ago. Her hips pressed back against his and he felt her shudder around him, pulling him deeper and deeper into the moment, as if he wasn't already totally consumed.

"Leia," he bit out with a breath that just wouldn't come fast enough.

She turned her head to his and he caught a flash of heated brown eyes and a bottom lip that had clearly been bitten. Had he done that or had she? He couldn't remember and didn't have the cognitive space to wonder for long. This experience was swallowing him whole. His chest tore wide open, bringing her small body into his as much as he was driving into hers, and it was good, _so good, _how could it still be this good after months and months…?

"Touch me—" she said, and he hurried to comply even before she finished her request, demand, whatever it was.

Reaching around her waist, he dipped his fingers close to where they were joined, sensitive fingers sweeping over hidden skin. A strangled _yes _fell from her lips and he knew he was lost. Lost in what they were doing, yes, but lost in a whole other sense, too. Lost because he swore he could feel her breaths against his lips and the stutter of her heart through his chest.

"Are you—_fuck,_" he cried, cut off by his own deep thrust. "Close? Are you?"

He couldn't tell. It was like a thread he'd lost in the dark, in the complete obliteration of this moment with her. Being completely enveloped in her, in _her, _in the center of his entire universe, he couldn't tell what was a contraction against his cock and what was movement. This position wasn't one for softness; this was as close to fucking as they ever got and, god, it was good—it was _so good_—that he was afraid he'd never find that thread again.

She hummed and tilted her head down, her hair hanging around her like a curtain as she dropped to her elbows. "Yes. Close. _Harder, Han._"

He grit his teeth and rose up onto his knees, holding her hips in his hands as he moved faster, _faster, _the whole galaxy spinning as she started to pant his name, as the air turned thick and his words turned to moans.

"Leia," he said but it was like a curse, because this was going to end and he _wanted_ it to end, wanted to come but _fuck, _when would he feel this again with her?

_I don't want to leave, _he whispered, but had he said it out loud? He didn't know. _I don't want to go. I don't want to leave. _

The pace was unsustainable now, a ricochet of thrusts and counter-thrusts, the line pulled so tight that he abandoned any sense and threw himself whole into the finality of it. _Fuck it. _This wasn't an end, he was coming back. This wasn't an end…

Her climax pulled him with her, cracking his bones apart, boiling the marrow within. There was no Han, no Leia, no Alliance or Empire. The cosmos existed for just this one reason, this culmination of hard histories and shared losses because here, right now, was _this, _with _her_. How could anything else ever mean more than this moment?

When he finally opened his eyes, he was lying on his side facing her. Boneless, she lay facing the opposite direction from him, breathing hard in large gasps, but even that was too far away for him and he draped around her like a cloak, knees crooked behind hers, nose in her hair.

"Don't wanna go," he murmured again, safe in his afterglow, safe because she wasn't looking at him and he couldn't have admitted such a thought if she had. He was no deserter, not to the good guys, not anymore, but damn it. He just didn't want to go.

"I don't want you to go, either."

She pressed her hand above his, interlaced their fingers over the skin of her slick stomach, and weighed down with sleep, his eyes fell closed. With that dark thought brought to life—exposed to her—he felt drowsy, called to sleep by exhaustion and dread for the day ahead.

The alarm was set. Lift-off was at 0600, four hours from now. He should have been sleeping this whole time but...

_I don't want to go._

And it was like she heard him. She turned in his arms and there she was—shrewd and brutal—looking at him as if she wasn't at all surprised to see him conflicted.

"A week," she whispered. "And then you'll be back."

He swallowed, tried a cocky affect, failed miserably. "Don't go messing around with the whole base while I'm gone."

"I'll do my best."

He smiled sadly. Her fidelity wasn't his real fear: his faith in Leia was absolute. And he believed in what he was doing, too. He knew it was important. He'd done this work a million times as a contractor to the Alliance.

It was more that—

"Got a lot to lose if I fuck up," he admitted.

And the menagerie of fears he had held at bay stampeded through him. Thoughts of all shapes and sizes. Ways to die. Ways to get caught. Ways to lose her.

It was like a storm of a completely different nature than the blissful one he'd just weathered with her. Horrible images assaulted him, fears he'd never really acknowledged to himself until now. If the Empire attacked and he wasn't here…

If Vader found her when he was away...

The last time had been harrowing, catching her unawares, vulnerable in the throes of her nightmares. And while he couldn't hope to ever fathom whatever it was Luke and Leia knew about the universe, he had been able to protect them when they had needed him most. The thought of leaving her defenseless was at the core of his worry. Not jealousy or even the thought of missing her.

It was her very safety that stopped him cold. Just about the only thing in the galaxy that did, anymore.

She looked at him, brown eyes running over his features in quick flits, like she was trying to memorize his face. She didn't try to put him at ease, didn't offer platitudes to comfort him. They knew what they were doing here, starting a once-in-a-lifetime relationship in the middle of a war. There was very little chance of this ending well for them both, and he doubted they would live to see the Alliance win, if it did indeed win. Still, the stakes seemed much higher when he wasn't here to fall with her.

Her eyes settled on his. "And you wonder why I resisted this for so long."

He blinked at her words, taken aback by her forthrightness. Had she had always felt this way? Like she was on the edge, one step away from tumbling into the abyss?

Of course she had.

"I'm coming back," he said, and now there was strength behind his words.

She smiled, pulling him down so she could kiss his forehead. "You're coming back."

—0—

Oh, but he was handsome and confident and full of cocky energy as he walked up that ramp.

Leia hid her fond smile behind a mask of careful neutrality even as she touched the healing tear on her lower lip. She'd bitten it raw late last night—early this morning?—when he had escalated the tension between them by flipping her onto her hands and knees. Something about his sudden shift, the way he took control as he entered her in one quick thrust, a harsh breath in her ear and his work-roughened fingers on her hips...

_Are you going to help? _Chewie asked, drawing her out of her reverie.

"I was told to stay here," she answered him. "Quite firmly, in fact."

Chewie gave her a questioning look and she nodded toward Salla, loading the _Starlight Intruder_'s main hold.

"You move, you die, Highness," the former smuggler shouted. "I'm in a hurry and you're distracting my commanding officer."

_You are hurried for the same reason that Cub is distracted, _Chewie offered.

Leia smiled. "He has a point, you know."

Salla huffed and turned back to load the last of the empty crates without further comment. Still smiling to herself, Leia pushed off the crate she was sitting on, seeing that it was the last to be loaded into the _Falcon. _As Chewie bent to pick it up, she wrapped a hand around his forearm.

"Keep him out of trouble," she murmured.

Chewie blinked at her, blue eyes confused. _Of course, _he growled. _I always do. Please stay out of harm's way, too._

"I am never in harm's way."

_You were born in harm's way, Little Princess._

"Oh, hush." Leia cocked an eyebrow but let the comment slide. "You think you are way funnier than you actually are."

Chewie whuffed a quiet laugh. _I know, _he said and his voice was very low, as if sharing a secret.

"Are you two going to kiss and make up?" she asked around her smile.

The tension between Han and Chewie hadn't been real, or at least not _entirely _real_. _She suspected the crux of the problem was the same as the one between herself and Luke; the relationship between man and Wookiee had changed, and how would they proceed in this new dynamic?

Chewie hadn't seemed bothered by his lack of time with Han, but Leia could tell that it had crossed Han's mind. And while she lamented that they were leaving Hoth on this first supply run, she was happy that captain and first mate would have some time alone together, to do whatever it was they did that made them the idiosyncratic pair they were.

_There is no genuine friction, _Chewie replied, too low for anyone else to hear. _But I like to tease Cub._

She smiled, fell in love with the Wookiee even more than she already had.

"Then be my guest," she said.

He flashed his grin and lumbered away as Salla sealed her hold and Leia was left with her final farewell, watching the line of Han's body as he strolled down the ramp. Her heart squeezed and she let the emotion flow through her, working as always to dip her feet into the abyss Luke seemed naturally destined to embrace. What did she feel? She felt pride for Han, confidence in his abilities. Fear, too, because he was going into Hutt Space and that was always a risk.

What was noticeably different from similar scenes in their past was a very real feeling of assuredness that given any possible vector of escape, he would come back. There was no real certainty—this was war, after all; nobody was truly _safe_—but if it were up to Han Solo, he would return. And that was new. That was the solace she needed.

"Thanks for the help," he said, drawing up to where she stood, sarcastic even now in what should have been a sweet moment.

She held up her hands in a mimicry of him. "I was told to _stay put._ So I stayed put."

"Salla ain't so tough."

"Yes, she is," Leia said. "Make sure you listen to her."

Rolling his eyes, he stepped into her space and slid his hands around her waist.

"She knows Prisht better than you do."

Han tilted his head to the side, questioning the veracity of her words, even as he leaned down to kiss her.

She dodged his lips with a jerk of her chin, glaring at him reproachfully. "And we need this contract, Han. I need you to—"

"Leia," he said. "Shut up."

She shook her head but he caught her lips, the words stolen from her with all the finesse of an avalanche. Closing her eyes, she wrapped her arms around his neck and treasured the moment. She didn't need a long, drawn-out scene here; they had said their goodbyes much earlier this morning in the privacy of her bunkroom, and so he kept it hard but tame, hands quiet on her hips, well aware that she wasn't entirely comfortable with excessive displays of physical affection in front of the entire loading dock.

"Go," she whispered and pushed him away.

He grinned his boyish, white grin and stepped back. "You looked like you could use a good kiss."

"_Go,_" she repeated, an order this time but framed around her exasperated smile.

He winked and turned, sauntering up the ramp and Leia watched him until he was out of sight, as the boarding ramp closed behind him, as the _Falcon _hissed and hummed her start-up sequence. She felt the pressure in her chest increase as both ships rose from the deck and flew away into the snowy atmosphere of Hoth, exhaustion sweeping through her like the frozen winds outside.

Work. Work was what she needed.

Winding through the long corridors, she moved slowly and touched her torn lip every now and then until she reached her office and allowed herself to collapse in her chair. Physical exhaustion was part of it, certainly, but she suspected this was something a little more nuanced than a simple poor night's sleep. She wasn't upset, not yet. She hadn't even really had time to miss him yet.

A younger Leia might have told herself to just pull it together. _This _Leia, however, was trying to allow herself those emotions and there was no shame in worrying that Han might run into danger on Nar Shaddaa. She also knew that he had two companions that would do everything in their power to keep him safe.

So she allowed herself to feel the pressure. To feel the exhaustion. To feel like disturbed earth in a freshly-planted garden: not a character flaw but a current state of being. In the quiet of her office she lasted about two minutes before she felt the need to move again, focus on something else.

Emotional stability must be like a muscle. She might have to work at it a little.

She checked scouting rosters. She stared at the requisitions list. She poured through intelligence reports. And when all that was done, she opened the Alliance's data network search function and typed _General Skywalker _into the field.

The name had haunted her since her conversation with Mon Mothma yesterday. She had pushed away its implications, knowing that what she wanted the most was for Han to feel loved and cherished before he left, but the idea of _that name _was written in invisible ink all over her thoughts.

On the screen nothing showed up under _search results_.

_Oh, _and that brought with it fresh emotions. A tremor swept through her, beginning at her fingertips and rising to her hands, arms, chest, then plunging down to her stomach, where it coalesced into a churning mess of anxiety and anger. She tried to sift through it and put names to the roiling pit, because if she could identify it, she could find a way to fight it.

Anger. Easy enough emotion to identify. The few times she had asked her parents about her biological heritage, they had demurred politely and moved the conversation to other topics. She was enraged at the bald-faced lies that they had told her. Lying by omission was still lying, and she had deserved better than that.

Helplessness, yes. She didn't like not having control, didn't like that it seemed she never had any sway over the currents that moved the pieces of her life around. She felt like one of Chewie's holographic dejarik pieces: just move her where you needed her to be. A Jedi youngling, for a later time.

Fear, too. The faint scent of conspiracy bothered her, the way there had been not one, not two, but _three _people who were tasked to reunite Luke and Leia at some defined point in the future. She knew, within this rushing swirl of emotion, that there was an element to this story that had not been revealed yet.

_General Skywalker._

The words blinked on her holo terminal as she stared right through it, lost in thought.

_General Skywalker._

* * *

_Author's Note: The next chapter of _Specter _will drop Thursday, October 1st. I hope you are able to enjoy the coming of autumn and the chill in the air as we transition out of this hellish summer. Special thanks to my partner-in-crime, the esteemed __**AmongstEmeraldClouds. **__And, too, thank you to all our reviewers. We are always so excited to share them with each other after the hours of discussion and work we put into each chapter. -KR _


	13. Perspectives

_Perspective_

* * *

The galaxy spun and Prisht worked.

The Distributary was a living, breathing thing, an organism all of its own with inalienable rights and ebbs and flows. After the demise of Grouka the Hutt's empire, her business had changed; one by one, former Hutt smugglers had shuffled in, joining the growing coalition of pilots looking to work independently of the Imperial stranglehold on the market.

They'd been inducted, trained, and repurposed into people she trusted to work within her business. Salla Zend had once called it _mild brainwashing_. She wasn't entirely wrong. The Distributary needed to be protected at all cost; if one person was outed to the Empire, all associates were outed as well. So the price for such protection was re-education, and she was not bothered by the ethics of it.

She knew what slavery looked like. She'd seen it firsthand. And she had made sure her enterprise did not come close to it.

Prisht sat behind a simple desk: small, compact, functional. The walls of her office were bare, painted a striking white, and brackets held up holodisk filing systems in the most efficient manner possible, contracts ready for revision at a moment's notice. No wasted space. No useless clutter. Every centimeter of her office was utilized for peak optimization. Pure efficacy. She knew that with The Distributary growing vast enough with displaced Hutt smugglers, she would need a larger office in time.

More contracts, and therefore a heavier surveillance presence. More care to avoid detection from Imperials, yes, but also because certain other Hutt syndicates were moving in to lay claim to Grouka's former glory.

Cutting her eyes to the small security suite display at the upper right hand corner of the desk, she was startled to see it vibrating at a very low decibel. She was expecting no one in that particular entry point for another week at least, and any deliveries would arrive at their assigned berths through the containment area. This was someone without an appointment, either an unsuspecting passerby or someone who needed emergency assistance.

Narrowed eyes. Quiet breath. Absolute control.

Prisht waited.

A speeder, wide and old. Two humans, one female and one male. The male was of good build but dull to her eye: long, shaggy hair, a scarred chin, and between those two features were eyes that did not trust easily. The female was simply gorgeous. Slim hips, long limbs, soft dark skin and hair twisted up in a top knot. The exact opposite of the male in that her eyes were wary and yet warm and confident.

Prisht's heart raced. She stood suddenly and the too-small office disappeared behind her, the corridors within the underground labyrinth flew by unnoticed, the hum of the docking bays where business was conducted in a parade of utility was squashed in favor of a much more pressing concern.

Her entire empire disappeared—her life's work and the business she'd built from nothing—until she was standing outside a framework hatch, leading to a small control booth where toggles activated the massive turbolift from above. Hydraulics hissed, smoke burst from pipes within the docking bay and, slowly, through the viewport in front of her, the speeder came into sight. She waited until the speeder and its two occupants were safely moved off the lift before she stepped out of the control room.

"Greetings, Salla Zend," she called.

Smiling, the human cocked a hip and tilted her head. "Hello there, Prisht. Mind if we come in?"

The erstwhile smuggler had not returned to see her for quite a few months, not since she had decided to commit to the Rebel Alliance. The length of time did not matter to Prisht. Time was meaningless, time was abstract. All that mattered was that Prisht _could _see her now. Only that she eventually came back to hold her. Kiss her. What was time against those feelings for her beautiful smuggler? Time did not change people as much as humans thought it did.

Humans. So short-lived. So constantly hurried.

Prisht beckoned Salla closer, feeling warm beneath her light gray skin. "You, yes. The ugly male will wait here."

Han Solo opened his hands wide in a gesture of outrage. "Hey!"

She looked at him critically, at his size and his heavy presence—the way he commanded attention from everyone, everywhere—and found herself as unimpressed as ever. Human males! The most disposable of the spectrum of human genders. Feral weakness behind flimsy domination. No forethought. No understanding of the intrinsic relationship between sentient creatures outside of their desperate need to overpower them. Salla Zend had warned her not to paint a wide stroke against all human males, but Prisht found nothing in this male—nor any other—to change her mind.

There had been but one exception and the Jedi who had freed her must be dead by now.

"I could kill you, if you would prefer?" Prisht asked, figuring it was a fair enough offer.

Dropping his hands, he crossed his arms, and leaned against the speeder in a sign of wary acceptance. "Uh. No, thanks."

Surprised, Prisht turned to Salla.

"Has he learned to behave himself?" she asked. "I expected more stubbornness from him."

Salla's grin was wide. "Doubtful. Mistryka can do many things but taming Slick over there is a different kind of battle."

"And I _very much _remember that you don't like to repeat yourself," he shouted. "I'll just… call Chewie on the _Falcon._"

"Oh," Prisht said, ignoring him. "Are they lovers?"

"Yes," Salla said, lower now that she was close. "You missed your chance, Prisht."

Grimacing, she nonetheless reached her hand to grasp Salla's, pulling her into her arms. For a brief moment Prisht felt almost too warm to be held, felt her body loosen and her limbs grow soft. Salla Zend smelled of soap and freshly-cleaned sheets, offering safety with some indescribable quality. So supple, her skin felt like Tansian silk, addictive to touch, and her voice in Prisht's ear was low enough not to be overhead. _I've missed you, _she murmured, and Prisht felt what she imagined humans must feel in their rambunctious, hormone-laden frenzies: like a shroud had been pulled over her head and, oddly and surprisingly, a burden had lifted from her chest.

"My love," she said and then pressed her lips to Salla's.

—0—

The whole scene felt familiar, except they were not on _Home One _and Leia was decidedly more emotionally stable than she had been the last time. For one, the training room on Echo Base was not sloppily painted red. It was a bright durasteel gray that reflected too much artificial light, so much so that it took her some time to adjust to the glare, and when she moved her eyes too fast, a sharp stab of pain would erupt from behind her retinas. Wisely, the designers of the training room had installed an actual floor—she imagined hand-to-hand combat drills on ice and shuddered for several different reasons—and there were convenient warming stations set up in the far left corner, too.

That was where she found Luke, standing beneath a red gamma light, only his head visible over the round plastex tube that gave his poor blood the heat it needed. She tried hard not to laugh.

Luke was suffering significantly on Hoth; he was much more at home on the arid desert planets. Tatooine's heat had prepared him well for the places where water was a life-or-death procurement and where knowing the signs of heatstroke served personnel well. Even the humid jungle of Yavin IV had been an acceptable environment for him.

But his background had done little to prepare him for this planet. They had been on Hoth for weeks now and while Chewie had whined and Han had growled under his breath—_do I have that right? Maybe it's the other way around—_Leia often caught Luke standing near an environmental stabilizer or in one of these heating stations. He had also taken to spending off-shift hours with Chewie on the _Falcon, _making use of the battered ship's life-support heating system.

She wondered how Luke had managed without his main source of heat since the _Falcon _had departed for Nar Shaddaa yesterday. She knew _she_ had struggled to sleep last night, but that was for an entirely different reason.

"How long have you been in there?" she called out to him.

He smiled his boyish grin and it warmed her as surely as the heating station would have. "I've been through three cycles."

"_Three?_"

"The calibration is off," he answered. "I did two cycles and then started to sweat. When I started to get out, the sweat froze to my skin and I jumped back in."

Staring at him, her mirth attempted to take over and she utterly failed to suppress it.

"It's not funny!" he said. "I might be stuck in this thing forever."

The whine was too much and threw her into full laughter, unrestrained and free. "That's why you are supposed to do _one _cycle at a time. Everyone got that warning in their base debriefs."

"I _gave _one of those base debriefs. I just wasn't warm after one cycle," he lamented. "If I die in here, you can have my lightsaber. Just don't let Han play with it."

She walked over to the warming station and pressed the emergency release button. The plastex tube dissolved and she grabbed Luke's hand and forced him into a jog beside her.

"You need to find a solution to this problem," she said as he fell into step with her. "Chewie told me you spent an hour warming up in the _Falcon_'s fresher a few days ago."

He huffed. "Chewie needs to mind his own business."

"I have eyes and ears everywhere, you know. There's no escaping my concern for you."

They lapsed into a companionable silence, broken only by the gradual increase in their respiration. It was nice, talking to him like this, allowing herself to accept him as family without existing under a veil of secrecy. Not everything could be taken so lightly; she still wasn't able to converse with Luke about Alderaan or her parents very often. She _wanted _to. She did. But the words got stuck in her throat whenever she tried.

She hoped that freedom came with time. Bail and Breha Organa would eventually be drawn into the equation of their shared history, but two years was a very thin margin to accept painful losses, and Leia had about two billion of them when it came to her homeworld's destruction. Add to it that it seemed her parents had known the complicated answers to the questions Luke and Leia now had, and she felt reluctant to talk too much about any of it.

"How are you doing without Han around?"

Leia didn't answer right away, choosing instead to stop their warm-up jog and move to the center of the floor. Two long, thin canes had been set there, and she wondered if Luke had been planning something specific when he asked her to meet him for a few combat drills.

"I'm fine," she finally said. "I'd rather he felt productive, and I'd _much rather _he be responsible for establishing a secure supply network so we don't starve or freeze to death here."

"Too late," Luke grumbled as he crouched to pick up one of the canes.

"Hush. No one else is having the same problems you are."

"No one else is from Tatooine."

She shook her head and took hold of the other cane on the floor. "Is there a reason we're using these today?"

Luke nodded. "I thought maybe I could show you what Ben showed me. And then you could show me whatever _you _know about fighting with swords."

"I never fought with _swords,_" she hedged.

He cocked an eyebrow.

"It was an epee."

Luke laughed and Leia couldn't hide her slight smile. She knew her privileged background was a source of amusement for Han and Luke, how she sometimes slipped into her Coreworld accent or arranged her eating utensils into proper order. It would have been easy to become self-conscious about it but for the very careful way all of them deftly tip-toed around the subject of Alderaan.

"Okay," he said. "An epee. Teach me."

With an open expression on his face, he hefted the cane in his hand, neatly catching it in his other palm and drawing it in a circle as if to demonstrate his cunning handwork.

She sighed. "Look, I _hated _fencing. My tutor was an uptight parliamentarian and her lessons were long and useless in actual combat. I don't know what you could possibly learn from me that would help—"

"You learned _something, _though," he interrupted. "Between the two of us, you got to learn how. We're lucky if I turn on the lightsaber the right way."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Ask Chewie. I almost impaled myself."

She peered into his eyes, wondering if the Wookiee would back up the story and deciding to ask him when he came back.

"Fine," she said on an exhale. "But I am not responsible if you fall asleep."

Luke smiled and gripped his cane with both hands, an eager wiggle to his step. Rolling her eyes, she stepped close and batted his left hand away from the cane.

"Dominant hand only," she said. "The other is up and away from the blade."

He frowned. "But lightsabers need—"

"We aren't fighting with lightsabers," she spoke over him. "I'm teaching you what I know of polite, rule-laden use of the epee. Choke up if it's too unwieldy."

He mimicked her, putting his grip farther down the cane.

"Now separate your feet and bend your knees."

After he had assumed a decent stance and moved his left hand out of the way, she started him on footwork, the quick _step-step-step _of a proper advance. His feet were sloppy, heavy and full-throated, and she had to backtrack her instruction into weight placement. How the ball of the foot created fleet-footedness, secured a quick rhythm. When he failed at that, too, she had him put down the cane and practice basic calf-raises, simply rising onto the balls of his feet without rolling the ankles out or tweaking the knees.

"This doesn't feel like fencing," he said on an exhale as he struggled. "My calves are killing me."

"That's because it _isn't _fencing," she said, walking around him. "This is _dance. _You need to understand your feet first."

And Luke, sweet, eager Luke, simply shrugged. "Didn't have much of that on Tatooine, either."

And that much was obvious. Why would a moisture-farmer need any such training?

"I liked dance better than I liked fencing," she said as she resumed her exercises with him. "At least in dance I didn't feel like what I was doing was a lie."

"What do you mean?"

"Fencing always felt like a facade. Aristocrats pretending to be veterans of combat. No one actually _uses_ an epee in a real war. It's a glorification of violence from a bygone era."

"Except the Jedi."

She smiled. "Right. Like I said, a bygone era."

Bending down again to pick up the discarded canes, she handed one to him and assumed her en garde stance. She advanced without moving the weapon, _snap-snap-snap_, only her feet, and now the dance disappeared, no longer a bourree but an attack.

"I hated it," she continued. "I hated how unnecessary it was. I was in no danger of someone kidnapping me from the Winter Palace with an epee. If they came, they would do so with a blaster set for stun. So it all felt very hollow."

"Why did you compete in it if you hated it so much?"

Sighing, she beckoned him her way. "Come at me."

He shuffled forward, a bit smoother now but with a hiccuping kind of rhythm that belied how unused his muscles were to this kind of movement. He would be sore tomorrow.

"My father liked it and I was good," she answered him. "Epee especially. It was the only form where I could attack my opponent's whole body."

Luke laughed. "That sounds like you."

"I know," she said. "Put your hand back."

He complied with a quick _sorry _and she continued.

"The other forms all had rules about not attacking the limbs or the head or the wrist. And if I had to be competing in _anything_, I'd much rather be able to fully attack anything I could reach. Imperials shoot everywhere."

"_Everywhere _is right," Luke muttered, then a thought occurred to him. "It's interesting your father liked you in fencing. Do you think he was trying to train you for—?"

He trailed off as Leia tumbled into memory, going back to conversations between father and pre-adolescent daughter, how necessary he said it was for her to learn, how she would thank him one day, how fencing taught unique lessons about life and protection.

"I don't know," she said, and then as quick as the snap of an epee, she demanded, "Put your hand back."

—0—

There was a moment as he walked down the _Falcon_'s ramp.

As she stood there.

When Han remembered to breathe for the first time in a week.

"Sweetheart," he announced. "Did you miss me?"

The air bit his exposed skin and her hair was a perfectly-sculpted masterpiece and he felt like the galaxy had jumped ahead without him. And yet she was right there, at the base of the ramp, like she had told him she would, before he had left. Somehow that was the biggest surprise of all.

"No," she replied, but her kiss told him otherwise. "I didn't miss you at all."

—0—

The galaxy spun and Prisht was patient.

Her business had changed once again as she'd shifted to help the Rebel Alliance. The markets had moved as well, prices fluctuating on Nar Shaddaa and Jabba the Hutt continuing his attempts to cull her associates from her roster.

But she was a shrewd business-being. The beauty of her enterprise was in its freedom to evolve and change as circumstances demanded. And her newest endeavors were sound, if exceedingly dangerous should she be caught.

She hadn't made the Alliance a priority; she'd simply allowed those contacted by Han Solo's squadron to use her berths to network and source the supplies they needed. Curious, the way traffic had not tapered off. Even more curious, the way _new _sources had been brought into the fold, through either genuine desire to support the Alliance or to snub their noses at the Imperial system. Just last week a contract for regular shipments of bacta had been granted to a small farmer from Thyferra, funnelled through her docking bays and into the hands of the Alliance. That was a tremendous haul for all parties concerned: for her commission, for the farmer and for the rebels, all.

And so she sat behind a larger desk, in a larger office, with her files neatly organized into holodisks that lined one of the five walls, walls which were now painted a slightly darker shade of white—the last time she'd been here Salla Zend had called it _eggshell_ but Prisht did not eat eggs—and there was still no wasted space. She did not decorate so much as she _attacked_, and that is what she had done here. Her business was entirely founded on clean schedules, secrecy and zero waste. And so was her office.

This time, when the security suite on the upper right hand corner of her desk buzzed, she was not as startled as she had been six weeks ago; she had been expecting this arrival all morning.

_Salla Zend, _she thought with a tenor of impatience and pleasure_. _

Arriving at the docking bay, Prisht engaged the toggles for the turbolift, which brought the speeder down, down, down into the bay, then receded and closed off the ceiling hatch as surely as if it had never opened. When the eager hum of machinery was cut off with a quiet jerk, she opened the hatch with a wave of her hand and stepped through with confidence.

Her hair was down, a curtain of the richest black Prisht had ever seen. The sleeves of her flight suit were rolled up to her elbows and she was absent from any male companion, a decided improvement from her last arrival.

"My love," she called from the hatchway. "You are late."

Salla smiled, teeth white and gleaming in the overhead lights, and ran the last few steps to where Prisht was perched, kissing her hard in welcome without a single word. She tasted of sweet-fire candy and Prisht felt like she could absorb the opposing flavors into herself if she tried hard enough. Such heat with such delight; that was who Salla was to her. A dichotomous mess that was still uniquely reliable.

"I'm here to make sure the contracts are still viable as previously agreed upon," she said against Prisht's lips.

Prisht ran a light finger down Salla's neck. "They are indeed viable. Is Mistryka satisfied with our work?"

"She is indeed. She sends her best regards."

"Good," Prisht said and kissed her again. "Is that all you have brought me? Your princess' satisfaction?"

_Safety, _yes: such existed in the space between the two of them. But Prisht also felt desperate, a keen longing to run her hands through her lover's hair, to feel her lips on her ear, to be able to abandon the structures of business and let the lines wave in their simple, chaotic orbits.

"_Unofficially_ I am here for my own satisfaction," Salla Zend whispered.

Prisht opened her hands, felt her lavender eyes shift into darker shades of purple. Heat and desire ran through her body, warmed her cold blood, made her come alive as very little managed to do these days. _Oh, _but Salla Zend spoke fire, and consumed as surely as any flame.

"Then it is good you left the ugly man on your mysterious base," she murmured and returned to Salla's lips.

—0—

"Can you deflect stun bolts?"

Luke's question seemed to come out of nowhere, stopping the epee drill with all the suddenness of an actual stun bolt. Taken aback, Leia dropped her stance and cocked an eyebrow at him.

Where had that thought come from? She had no idea.

He was improving, slowly and methodically, with every passing day. His footwork in particular had made great strides and he was starting to understand the very basics of swordsmanship. She still harangued him about form, about his feet, hands, back. About his open, slack jaw. About the way his eyes would shift when he was about to attack. About telegraphing his intentions with every step he took.

It _was _slow work. Leia had spent nearly every day with her brother, trying to help him improve with the same speed she remembered from her childhood days. The cavernous divide between how she had trained on Alderaan and how Luke trained now was so enormous, and so treacherous a path, that she often had to remind herself that Luke was a different person.

Sometimes he surprised her: those rare moments when he'd hide his intent or when she would be distracted by, say, memories of her time with Han the night before. He would harness the moment, strike when she was vulnerable, and that's how she would see glimmers of his potential, the fighter he could be if he could just focus on his opponent instead of looking so far inward. It was slowing his progress down.

But then again... What was the rush? As she had said weeks ago during their first training session, she was not training him to use a lightsaber. She didn't have the knowledge to do that. She was only killing time between the establishment of a functional base, between supply orders and parts requisition, between times when Han was on-base and times when he was out commanding his squadron. Who cared if Luke Skywalker ever learned how to parry with an epee?

_Can you deflect stun bolts? _He had asked, and she had the ludicrous thought to answer in the affirmative.

But that was not helpful. Leia tilted her head, lowered her cane. "With an epee? No."

Luke shifted his stance and automatically resumed his individual footwork drills as was his habit when she took herself out of sparring.

"Remember how I told you Ben had me train with a remote?" he said. "I'd heard that Jedi could deflect stun bolts with their lightsabers."

_Ah, yes. _This made more sense to her. "I imagine that would be a great skill to have."

"When I tried, I failed miserably," he said with a light laugh.

She considered the idea, what the fundamental difficulties would be in parrying stun bolts with a lightsaber. It seemed like it would be very intense and advanced work; anticipating where another person would shoot was not simple swordsmanship. That was more like Luke's colors: nebulous and discerning.

"That doesn't sound like a lesson in parrying stun bolts," she said after a moment. "It sounds like a lesson in humility."

"Maybe," he admitted. "Or maybe it was a test."

She blinked. "A test for what?"

Luke licked his lips and resumed his calf-raises, knowing where he needed work and using his time to multitask. When he next spoke, he was thoughtful. Resigned.

"You didn't know you were Force-sensitive until you manipulated energy with your hands and shut doors without touching them," he said. "I knew I was Force-sensitive—_really_ knew it—when I heard Obi-Wan's voice in my head making the shot that destroyed the Death Star."

She processed that while running through her opening drills, the physical exertion a good vehicle for a clear mind. Luke wasn't wrong. It didn't mean anything in the grand scheme of things—they still didn't have anyone to teach them and anyone who _migh_t know about the Force had been executed long ago—but it was an intriguing thought.

"Can you tell me more about seeing people's colors?" she said through an exhale. "I admit, it still seems very incomprehensible to me. Like auras, almost?"

The past few weeks had been about listening to each other, seeing each other from a different perspective. Luke, her friend, had told her of his childhood years ago, had explained the deaths of his aunt and uncle and of the old hermit who he now believed had watched over him his entire life. But the other Luke—her twin brother—had nuance to his story because now it was her story, too. And while she had only started to open up to him about Bail and Breha Organa, he had regaled her with stories from Tatooine's wasteland for hours. He was far more open than she was. Far more willing.

Leia started running through the advanced epee drills by herself: the lunges, the parries, the quick, tight blaze of controlled fury she remembered from her youth. She was starting to feel an anxious desire to run away but she had promised Luke to try and she wanted to share this with him. She needed to keep moving

_Stay busy, _she demanded of herself, _but stay._

Luke sat on the ground, elbows on his knees, watching her with interest. "I don't know how to explain it," he said. "It's not something I can control and it's not always in colors. It's just that sometimes people begin with a certain energy and then will shift to another and that means that they feel something more."

"More than what?"

"Just… _more._ It's not a sophisticated enough skill to tell me what they're feeling. It's more like an indication of how deeply they feel at the time. And it's not coded: they don't always switch colors. It's very nebulous, I guess. Very abstract."

Leia harnessed the power of her breath and moved through a quick thrust combination. She wasn't as precise as she had been as a child—her years as a senator and then a rebel had obviously dulled some of her technique—but it still felt good. Heat and blood and oxygen as she pushed her muscles, as she tried a wider range of motion. The cane was thicker than her epee, nowhere near balanced in weight, but it was something to hold and something to use and something to focus on.

"The first time I met Han he looked like he was spontaneously combusting."

Turning her head, she exhaled and looked back at him. "What do you mean?"

"I didn't trust him," he said, looking at her with those soft blue eyes. "Ben had found him and Chewie in the cantina, and the minute he spoke, his whole body just erupted in red."

Pressing the end of the cane into the floor, Leia leaned on it.

"Before that day, I had never met anyone whose color looked like that who didn't want to kill me. Sand people were always red, so I automatically took it to mean that they were dangerous."

"Obi-Wan didn't look red to you?"

Luke shook his head. "He mostly just stayed a cool, still blue, except when he talked about my father's—_our_ father's—death. And even then it wasn't a red, it was… just like… wind whipping across the sand dunes. Turbulence."

_Interesting, _Leia thought. She walked to him and sat cross-legged in front of him. "But Han was red?"

"I realized after I met _you _that the red doesn't mean _bad. _It's just that some people feel things more deeply than others."

Well, that certainly could be the case. Han's whole mercenary facade was based on the idea that he didn't care about anybody or anything. He had worked hard to develop that front and it had worked well for him, kept him alive.

The problem, as she'd realized in the intervening years, was that Han felt things _very _deeply. He wasn't an empath and even though he had given no indication that he could sense what _others_ felt, he felt his own emotions with wholesome disdain. Somewhere along the line he'd been taught that love, loss and pain were dangerous and so he had adopted a careless mask. Knowing Han as she did now, she thought he probably figured he would fake the apathy until it was real.

And then Luke's last words sunk in. "After you met _me?_"

He was staring at her, patient and guileless. "Your color is pretty obvious, Leia. Even when you try to look like you don't care, you seem to be feeling something."

"Is _my_ color red?"

"I'm not explaining this well at all," he said. "I'm making it sound like different colors mean different things and that's not… It's not that simple. I wish I could show you."

She waited, watching him struggle to put into words something he had always seemed to know, a fundamental truth that no one else understood. How alienating that must be, Leia thought, to see evidence of someone's hidden truths but not be able to explain it to anyone else. Did he ever feel like he was invading their privacy? Did he ever refer to it and receive looks of suspicion?

"Right now your color—what did you call it? Your _aura_—is like mist," he whispered. "You're projecting it around me."

Wondrous and terrifying, his truth. From her point of view, they were sitting across from each other, sweat cooling onto their skin. There was no mist, no color. Only Hoth's cold air and the feeling of mysticism interrupting the rigid structures of the real world.

"And you didn't think this was related to the Force before you met the droids?"

He shrugged. "I didn't know anything about my father then. How could I have possibly known about the Force?"

She struggled to understand, struggled to comprehend the enormity of what he was telling her. The pure vagueness of his talk of colors… that it wasn't about colors at all. That it was about their substance instead. Or that he could differentiate intent based entirely on this metaphysical sight of his.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, low.

She licked her lips. "I was thinking about how alienating that must be for you."

"Hmm. What else?"

"I was thinking that I've never seen anything like what you are describing. I've never seen someone's aura or mist or anything like that."

Luke sighed. "And you aren't trying to give me anything? Trying to offer me anything?"

"No."

She was baffled. Offer him? She empathized with him, sure, but it wasn't as if she could help him in any way. She was living in the physical world while he seemed to be standing between two different ones, and it was beyond her ken to fully comprehend what he was talking about.

"And you've never looked at Han and thought he was… _shouting _for your attention?"

_That _made her laugh. "Well, he does that quite literally."

"He does it metaphorically, too," he said around a soft smile. "Like a child. Exactly how you would imagine he'd feel when he sees the _Falcon. _Happy and excited and dying for attention."

Leia tucked her smile away, a little uncomfortable with Luke knowing so much about how Han saw her or how she saw him. She imagined how useless their efforts had been to hide their relationship from Luke, how fruitless it had been to try and deceive someone who had a grip on a world she couldn't yet grasp.

Disturbed, she tried to shift away from the topic of Han. "Did you tell Obi-Wan about this?"

Luke rolled his eyes. "I didn't have the chance."

Quiet settled between them, calm and easy. Leia was content to let Luke think, to let him express whatever it was he needed to express. She was no empath, either, but he looked conflicted about something, softly disturbed, his seriousness so unlike his usual buoyancy. She saw it in the way his shoulders rolled forward, in the faraway look in his eyes, in the way his right index finger _tap-tap-tapped _on his shin with a speed his feet would envy.

"It doesn't make sense to me," he whispered at length. "We're twins. How is it that we experience things so differently?"

She thought about that, considered the stories her father had told her of the brave Jedi Masters he'd known during the Clone Wars, the way his voice would turn reverent and his eyes would glimmer. She could understand it better now, listening to Luke talk about his gifts. Like her father, she couldn't fathom how doing such things was possible.

"My father used to tell me stories of the Jedi," she admitted around the lump in her throat. "He talked about them in a lateral sense, because he had known some of them but had no concept of how they did what they did."

_Leila, the Force isn't good or bad, right or wrong. There is no morality behind it. It just is. The Jedi were simply the ones who would learn to wield it._

"They were healers and teachers, knights and masters," she continued. "It would stand to reason that there were personal strengths and weaknesses to the Order."

"You think we have different strengths."

She nodded. "And weaknesses. I think that's pretty obvious, don't you?"

Luke settled into quiet again, then broke his own silence. "There is so much we don't know."

She hummed and let the moment linger, sitting with a brother who understood the galaxy in a completely different way than she did.

—0—

Han missed her with an ache that shocked him. Not because he was surprised that he loved her so much that being away felt like a part of him was missing, but because of _how fast that had happened. _He'd been a smuggler, and before that an Imperial cadet, and before _that _a pickpocket, and in none of these iterations had he felt like he was missing a limb when he slept. Nothing like the way he felt when he needed to hear her voice calming him down after some stupid meeting.

But now it was all Leia, all the time. And he wasn't sure how to deal with that.

Chewie, the great philosopher, called it _growth. _

_This is what it means to be committed to another outside of yourself, _he had said.

"This is what it means to go fuck yourself," Han replied.

Damn Wook knew too much about it to let him stay in denial. He had grinned with massive canine teeth and a glint in his blue eyes that told Han he would drop it for now but the conversation was not over.

Sighing in defeat, Han tucked his chin to his chest and thought about what Leia's hair smelled like after a fresher.

—0—

The galaxy spun and Prisht worried.

She was confident in her choice to add a full thirty percent increase in workforce to her existing operation for the pure benefit of the Alliance. It was hard, grueling work but it was also work done with a clear conscience. And it was lucrative besides. Her associates paid their dues and the loading bay schedules were full to the brim. Clandestine trades had begun to happen and she took her share from those as well. Bacta for foodstuff; hauling freight for a lead on ammunition.

Such was war. She had no qualms.

Instead she worried about the rumors she had heard. She did not engage in them, did not seek them out. But they were rampant in the corridors of The Distributary, traders from offworld telling stories of dark promises of bounties, of rewards on the head of one man. And while bounties did not bother her, she feared the safety of her contracts should one of her associates take it upon themselves to fulfill them.

"My love," she said as soon as the speeder hit the deck-plates of the bay. "There has been a development."

Salla Zend jumped out of the speeder, looking resplendent in shirt and trousers, high boots and hair wild around her head. "And what's that?"

Prisht waited until the lift clicked into place above them. "Jabba the Hutt has increased the bounty on Han Solo," she said once the bay was secure and quiet.

Orange eyes widened and then narrowed. "How much?"

"Over five hundred thousand for Solo, another two thousand for the Wookiee."

Salla Zend took in the information as she always did: quickly, calmly and with a decided glint of action to the quirk of her lips. "That doesn't surprise me. Surely Jabba knows who Solo is working for."

"You do not understand," Prisht said. "The reward has drawn the attention of a particular bounty hunter named Boba Fett. The Mandalorian is dangerous, my love."

Lifting a hand to Prisht's cheek, Salla Zend pursed her lips and looked decidedly less-than-concerned. "Okay. I'll let them know when I get back on base. Are we done with business now?"

Prisht blinked and settled into the safe haven of Salla Zend's lips, even as the doubt and worry receded to the background of her dimmest, darkest brain, ready to protect as surely as to attack if threatened. _Do not get caught, _she thought to the ugly man. _Do not destroy my business with your foolish attachments. _

—0—

Luke dreamt of dark greens and browns, of heat and methane, of mist and smoke. The scene was completely foreign to him, like the dreams of falling—the ones he'd shared with Leia—but without the terror. This was intriguing, mysterious. Not _safe, _not by any stretch of the imagination, but familiar, almost.

_Luke_.

He turned as if startled, even though he didn't truly feel that way. He felt… tethered? Entranced. As if he was always supposed to turn, as if his body was a simple thing and reacted on animal instincts.

_Luke._

The man wasn't far away but his voice sounded as if he was speaking from a great distance. That didn't surprise Luke, either. He'd been dead for almost two and a half years now.

"Ben?"

_You will go to the Dagobah system._

"Dagobah system?"

He'd never heard of it. Then again, there was still much he didn't know about the galaxy.

_There you and your sister will learn from Yoda, the Jedi Master who instructed me._

Luke frowned. The concepts were simple but questions flew around the inside of his skull like may-gnats. He and Leia. Learn. Yoda, who had instructed Ben.

They would learn about the Jedi. They would train.

Hope. It lit him from the inside-out, beyond the lines of his physical body, and into where he'd fallen asleep aboard the _Falcon. _The dream started to ebb away, ripples in the image signifying wakefulness. The old master wavered into nothing and Luke was suddenly awake and staring at the _Falcon_'s crew cabin hull, the durasteel rivets rusted and the seams haphazardly coated with sealant.

"Yoda," he whispered.

"The Dagobah system."

* * *

_Author's Note: Happy Birthday, _Specter! _Our baby is now one year old, and we are proud of her! Thank you for hanging in there, dear readers. We know how difficult the past few months have been and that people are feeling some apathy to fic in general. We are grateful to you for continuing on this journey with us; we're in it for the long haul and will be here if you need a _Specter_-hiatus. _

_Special thanks as always to __**AmongstEmeraldClouds **__for her superb editing work and her generally superb friendship. The next chapter of_ Specter _will be posted Sunday, November 1st. Thank you, again! - KR_


	14. Plan of Action

_Plan of Action_

* * *

Quicker than lightning, Leia's eyes shot open, focusing into the darkness of the cabin in full night-cycle. She couldn't place what had awoken her, only that she had been tugged out of sleep with all the subtlety of an Imperial air raid. For a moment, she imagined that that had been the culprit, but no sirens wailed and her comm remained silent on Han's desk on the far side of the cabin.

They hadn't made it back to her bunkroom the night before. The chilly trek had seemed an insurmountable obstacle in her need to hold him after he'd been away for ten days. He had rushed back, too, exhausted as the _Falcon_ had touched down and so she had simply led him by the hand, back to the ramp and the captain's cabin. They'd tumbled into bed and fallen asleep right away, a testament to how elemental their need for each other had been.

She never slept well when he was away. He had admitted the same. And even though she couldn't put her finger on _why, _that confession held a certain vulnerable power over her_._

Blinking into the dim light, Leia resumed her search for what tremor had tugged her out of sleep. She didn't feel the same terror she had experienced when Vader had attacked: no urgency, no need to move or protect or attack. This felt more like an itch, a mild awareness of something _else_, a nagging thought that she had forgotten something...

Turning to her other side, she examined Han's relaxed, sleeping features—the deep rise and fall of his chest, the slightly-parted lips—and then snuck out of the bunk, throwing on one of his old shirts and a pair of her too-long fatigues.

Barefoot, she crept into the main hold, feeling encouraged by the bright lights and the smell of fresh caf. She found Luke leaning against the galley's small counter with a mug in hand and a filmy, tired look in his eyes. His hair stuck up on one side, making him look boyish and innocent, but a soft irritation lit in her chest nonetheless. She had been sleeping so well, a respite from the loneliness, the prospect of a quiet morning with Han now utterly dashed by her brother's presence.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, her annoyance easy to hear.

She didn't have a problem with Luke staying on the _Falcon, _but she felt a little too exposed this early in the morning. She fiddled with the hem of Han's shirt, the ends of her loose hair.

He looked up quickly, as if he hadn't known she was standing there. "Morning," he mumbled. "I, uh… slept here last night."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, _why? _I just did. It's warm."

Leia maintained her irritation, fed it like timber catching fire. "Did you wake me up?"

"Me?" he asked.

She rolled her eyes and moved toward the caf machine, elbowing her way past him with all the lack of finesse she currently felt. She should be asleep. _Why wasn't she asleep?_

"I don't know," Luke said. "I had nothing to do with it."

Her hands stilled on the dispenser and she turned a slow, careful look toward him. Babyish in the bright light, squinting eyes held up by pure stubbornness alone, his forehead creased as he sipped his entirely too-sweet caf.

"I didn't say anything," she said.

He froze, cup to his lips, and held still for a moment, breathless tension drawn in his every line. "You asked me why you weren't sleeping."

"I didn't."

"I _heard _you," he accused, setting his mug down. "I heard you ask me—"

Disturbed, she shook her head and brought her mug with her to the holochess table. "Luke. I _didn't._"

He shut his mouth, furrowed his brow, and followed her to the booth. Leia was wary, uncomfortable, unsure how to process these new revelations. Reality felt disjointed this morning. She wanted to crawl back into bed with Han, let him envelop her in his ridiculous Corellian heat and go back to sleep. Her first meeting wasn't until 1100 anyway and Echo Base had been largely well-supplied by the Mercs' valiant efforts the past few months. There was nothing—absolutely _nothing_—that should be occupying her attention right now. They deserved some time. They had earned it.

And Luke was ruining it.

"Huh," he said. "Do you think it's a… a twin thing?"

She put her head in her hands. "Just drop it, please."

Quiet settled between them, flimsy and tenuous, and Leia thought that if the air between them had a color—like what Luke claimed it did—it would be a thin orange, like smoldering embers that could leap into flame at the barest hint of oxygen.

"Have you ever heard of a planet named Dagobah?"

She leaned her temple on her fist, grateful that Luke had dropped the subject and happy for the distraction. "I don't believe so."

"Huh."

Quiet again, but this one _too_ uncomfortable. Luke's need was like a flood-light shining into her eyes; it made her blind to everything else.

"Why?" she asked, despite herself.

He eyed her skeptically. "You don't seem like you're in the mood."

"I'm _not _in the mood," she agreed. "But you look like you might combust if I don't ask."

His self-conscious smile broke through, and it ignited her own. Funny how he had that power over her.

"Ben spoke to me in a dream. He said that we need to go to Dagobah and meet someone named Yoda."

A muffled thud behind her, then the sound of a rushing Wookiee and a too-loud growl. Moments later, Chewie swept into the galley, leaning his considerable height toward Luke, blue eyes peering beneath wild chestnut fur.

_Repeat that name, _he growled.

"Yoda?"

Leia put her hand on Chewie's forearm. "Is something wrong?"

_I know that name, _he said, and his eyes turned far away, looking into a past neither Luke nor Leia could understand. _From the war._

Luke nearly fell out of the booth in his excitement. "You know who this Yoda is?"

"You fought in the Clone Wars?"

Leia was mortified to realize she had never considered that Chewie might be a veteran of the Clone Wars. It made perfect sense, of course; Kashyyyk had been a major battleground in the conflict, and a Wookiee lifespan far exceeded a human's.

_He helped defend my homeworld, _Chewie said. _I had heard that he was killed during the Purge._

"Ben said Yoda trained him," Luke continued. "That Leia and I need to go to a planet named Dagobah to learn from him."

Leia's jaw dropped. "Learn?"

Breaking eye contact with him, she pushed herself away from the dejarik table and walked over to the engineering station, bringing up the search function for _Dagobah. _When the navicomputer had a listing for a small, swampy Outer Rim planet of the same name, she exhaled in a rush, inexplicably relieved.

"You found it?" Luke guessed from across the room. "It's real?"

She nodded. "It's real."

"Then we need to go!" he said. "There's a master alive who can train us, Leia!"

His smile catapulted the room into uneasiness for everyone except for himself. Leia caught Chewie's eyes, the caution and worry there mirroring her own feelings. She had a list of misgivings a kilometer long and she had just opened her mouth to share it with him when a very tired, very _annoyed _Han Solo stumbled into the main hold, bare-chested with beltless trousers hanging low on his hips.

"What the _hell _are the three of you doing in here?"

Chewie and Leia turned guilty eyes on the Corellian, but Luke's excitement couldn't be contained. "We found a master to train us, Han!"

Han stilled, frozen like a statue, his eyes ticking from one person to another, studying each of them in turn. "How?"

Interesting. That was her biggest question, too, the most probable source for her unease. _How _could a master have possibly survived the Purge? _How _could Vader find them in the middle of nowhere but not find a master hidden on an obscure world?

_How?_

Although that too was interesting: Obi-Wan had done the same thing.

"Ben came to me in a dream," Luke said, taking Han's question much more literally than Leia had. "He said that Leia and I should go to Dagobah and learn from a Jedi master named Yoda."

Leia's deep apprehensiveness dissolved into dark mirth as she watched Han take that in. His mouth opened, shut, then opened again with a furious shake of his head.

"Uh-huh. You're kidding, right?"

Over Luke's shoulder Leia shook her head, silently communicating to him that Luke was very, _very_ serious. His eyebrows rose and he shifted his stance, ready to come down squarely on her poor brother, still bright and oblivious in his enthusiasm. Leia sensed where he was going, the protectiveness and anger that was about to be turned onto Luke, and felt tired, drained, and unable to handle the confrontation that was about to erupt.

"Ben said—"

"How do you know that it's him?" Han interrupted. "How do you know it wasn't Vader again?"

Leia's mood darkened further. The thought hadn't crossed her mind, either, caught up in the ridiculousness of the situation, four grown adults in their sleep attire arguing over Jedi masters at, what was it? 0000? A ludicrous hour to discuss _anything _of importance, never mind the fate of the nonexistent Jedi Order.

"It wasn't Vader," Luke urged. "It was Ben. And Leia checked: the planet exists."

"That doesn't prove anything, kid."

"You don't understand—"

"And who the hell is this guy anyway?" Han asked, a freighter set on its course. "Let's say it's all true. You go out there for Jedi School, trusting that this guy knows anything about a group of people who were killed off before you were even born?"

Luke shut his mouth, finally sensing Han's extreme opposition to the idea. Leia would have been kinder to him, had she had the sense to fully warn him that with a half-brained plan like this, he would experience the worst of Han's stubbornness. And while she would normally cut that rabid protectiveness of his down to the quick, she had a larger consideration than just her pride.

Han was right. They didn't know _anything _about this Jedi. For all they knew it could be a trap.

_If this is the same Jedi Master I knew on Kashyyyk, then he is trustworthy._

Chewie's low growl surprised Leia, the faces of the other two humans in the hold painted with similar expressions. The Wookiee spoke quietly, a sign of his complete reverence and honesty and Leia felt her disquiet return in big, crashing waves.

Han glared at his first mate. "You're friends with a bunch of Jedi now, are you?"

Wordlessly, Chewie gestured to Luke and Leia.

"Okay, _fine_," Han responded, ire fully redirected from Luke onto the Wookiee like a fickle dinner guest. "You just wanna ship them off to your secret friend, the Jedi master who let the galaxy tear itself apart?"

Luke opened his mouth to reply but Leia beat him to it. "No one is going _anywhere _right now," she said, hoping to prevent another frosty bout between friends. "We will talk about this later, when we've had some sleep and can discuss this calmly."

"But—"

"No." Leia cut off Han's sharpness with her own, assuming command with one word, summoning every bit of the monarch she had once been. "Now is not the time to discuss this."

Han's eyes were hot on hers, but he shut his mouth and nodded once in agreement. She turned to her brother, his demon not anger or protectiveness, but overenthusiasm. She saw it clearly in him, so slow to judge, so quick to act.

Considering his eager, sky-blue stare, it occurred to her that as much as she fondly dismissed Han's well-known penchant for foolhardiness and his willingness to jump into any fray he came upon as characteristic, Luke's reactions bothered and worried her more. Out of the two of them, who was more likely to walk into the docking bay, rev up his X-wing and fly to a planet they knew nothing about on the basis of a dream?

"Luke," she said, gripping his shoulder, trying to imbue him with a sense of comfort. "Go back to sleep. We'll talk about this in the morning."

She could _see _the struggle in his eyes, the fierce desire to fight for what he thought was right, but also the clear need to listen to her words.

"Give me time to process and talk with him," she continued in a softer tone. "This affects us all, and we need to think about this carefully."

Luke pursed his lips but nodded. "Okay."

They abandoned their mugs, letting the wisps of heat swirl in the air as each of them moved back into their sleeping quarters. Han and Leia were the last to go, her hand in his, waiting until the cabin hatch hissed shut behind them to continue the discussion they both knew was coming.

"You're not going somewhere I can't go."

Biting back a quick retort, she turned to him and to the anger in his eyes, anger that hid both worry and fear. She could see it so clearly, the way he would leap into his protectiveness at the barest hint of danger, the way his first instinct was to step in front of her and take the blaster bolt in her stead. She loved him for it, loved the ferocity in his eyes, but she also knew she needed to make sure he understood one very clear thing. Not a command. Not a decree. Only a simple tenet of trust.

"That is not something you can demand of me," she said, quiet and hushed, even as she squeezed his hand. "It isn't fair and you know it."

"Yeah, but—"

"But _nothing_. I make my own decisions."

He stared at her, ready to fight, the fire in his eyes so hot it was almost as if she could feel the heat. Stepping into his space, she brushed her fingers softly up his biceps, shoulders and then back down again. A soft refrain. Soothing. A tad manipulative, perhaps, but this was a boundary she needed to set and one he needed to respect.

"I am not impulsive enough to blindly rush off to a planet I know nothing about," she murmured.

"Never said you were."

She accepted that with a nod. "I don't know that I would go even if we knew it _wasn't _a trap."

The past months, and settling into her new sibling relationship with Luke, had felt innocent and somewhat natural to her. Safe. The stakes were not as high when they were discussing the past or speculating about their shared history. There was comfort in knowing that there wasn't a possibility of actually _doing_ anything with the power they shared. It was an oddity. Impotent. Unimportant.

But the prospect of training to use it was a different matter entirely.

Han's shoulders relaxed under her fingertips, the fire smothered though she knew no fight was ever completely finished when it came to this man. Settling his hands on her hips he tugged her closer, until she was completely surrounded by him, until his arms had wrapped around her and he placed his lips a breath away from her ear.

"I worry about you," he whispered. "And I don't like worrying."

She smiled and pressed her nose into the warm skin of his chest. "If you wanted easy, you should have stuck with your portside harem."

Chuckling, Han lowered his voice into that enticing bass, the rumble in his throat comforting and somehow still exciting, even now, even when she was tired and held captive in a mental fog.

"Nah," he said. "I like a good challenge."

Breaking free, she once again grabbed his hand and tugged him back to the bunk. They fell, together, and Leia felt her heart explode into pure, unbridled adoration for the man in her arms, his unceasing ability to make her feel safe and heard and human. She pushed him to his back, climbed atop him, and brushed her lips to his, resolving to remind him how much she needed him when the rest of the galaxy looked jumbled and senseless, when she didn't know what the future held, when she remembered to learn from her own trauma and embrace the good things in her life.

"Leia," he whispered against her lips.

"Han," she agreed, and the galaxy finally went quiet.

—0—

Standing in front of a massive holoprojector, Han tried to push the early-morning conversation from his mind and focus on the briefing he was currently conducting. Usually, he didn't have trouble concentrating at work: this was fun to him, a kind of mix between smuggling and actual military strategy and he liked the idea of solving problems, of finding creative solutions and helping his pilots cut their teeth on tough runs that he knew all too well. _Like bragging without the actual bragging, _he'd admitted to Leia a few weeks ago. _Showing 'em who's the boss but still helping them stay alive._

Idealism wasn't his strong suit but the Alliance sure as hell needed his pragmatism. Usually, he was happy to provide it.

But today just didn't feel right. He was disturbed by the wake-up call of Luke's nearly-unstoppable need to do stupid shit in the name of the Jedi. It had been like a bad dream—all of them in their sleepwear, yelling about a planet none of them knew anything about—and it _still _bothered him, even now, hours later. He hadn't expected life to always remain exactly the same, but he'd been hoping to at least know the general idea of where Leia was at any given time.

If she went hunting for a Jedi master out in the far-flung wilderness of the Rim, who knew what trouble she'd find or what trouble would find _her_?

_Ah_, but that was pointless, too. Leia could handle herself just fine, had proved it a million times over. It wasn't fair to force her into a life of some perceived safety that didn't actually exist for his peace of mind, while he went in and out of Hutt Space. She wouldn't have made him do that and he didn't want to do that to her, either.

"You all understand your assignments?" he asked the room, trying to pull himself back to the present. _Get your head back in the game, Solo, _he ordered himself.

It was kind of a useless order. He never completely forgot to worry about Leia in some way.

A chorus of nods answered him, followed by the usual rustle of the Mercs standing up, stretching, and conversing loudly to each other as the meeting ended. Salla was on a run at the moment and so it was just him and the kids. They'd decided early on that one of them would remain on-base while the other was away for purely managerial reasons; _someone _needed to be here to cool them down or make them do their scheduled sims. It was like being a parent, he'd decided, or at least what he thought that might be like.

The hustle and bustle of bodies moving out of the theater lulled him into a sense of ease, allowed him to focus on cleaning up the mess he'd made with the projector, the supply-run schedule behind him written in Aurabesh on an old-fashioned white board. The theater was cold: not all tech had been insulated, and more rudimentary tools were occasionally used, but Han was just grateful the Alliance had found this set-up at all.

He turned his back to the emptying theater to stare at the shipping schedule, the black squiggles and dotted lines that charted who was going where and what they would be picking up. He was so invested in his survey that he didn't catch the voices behind him until they were suddenly too loud to ignore.

"—watched him work out in the gym lately? He's in there all the fucking time, man."

Curious, Han strained to listen even as he ejected his data pad from the sensor and the hologram disappeared from behind him.

"She's better than he is," a second, female voice, said. A pause, then: "More fun to watch, too."

Instinct told him not to react even as he realized who they were talking about. Eyes glued to the screen in a pantomime of concentration, he focused on his datapad.

"I've never met a Jedi," the first voice said.

"No one has, idiot," the second scoffed. "They're all dead."

"I haven't seen them levitate anything. They just do hand-to-hand drills. Do you think they do all that Jedi garbage when no one is around?"

"Levitate? Hell, I'd be fine if that's _all _they were doing," she said. "I heard back home that Jedi can control you with their minds."

Han's anger rose as if he was in a quickly-flooding room: from his boots up his legs, hips, chest, shoulders, swelling, bubbling, _vicious _rage. He tried to corral it into shoving his datapad into the storage sack at his hip, unsure if he ought to react or to keep up the facade.

"Ah, c'mon," the first voice said. "That's some Imperial propaganda bullshit."

_Oh, _he wanted to rip them a new one. Not just for flagrant disrespect of a senior officer, but for the completely idiotic idea that Leia would ever—_could ever_—be such a monster. His searing anger was turning septic, poisonous; he would be damned if one of his pilots said anything that unfair about… about _her, _about _Leia, _the whole reason they were all here in the first place. Did they forget who they were talking about? Did they _really _think she could _ever_—?

A hairy paw landed on his clenched fist, stopping him in his tracks.

The woman responded, unaware how closely she had come to being redressed by her commanding officer. "Maybe it _is_ bullshit. But do you sleep well at night thinking that it might not be?"

_Cub, _Chewie growled, low.

Han grit his teeth, turned furious eyes on his best friend. "They're talking about—"

_I know. But they are allowed their opinions._

"You're insane," the man said, and the voice sounded farther away, like the pair was walking out of the briefing theater. "I don't think—"

_Wait, _Chewie urged. _Wait until we are alone._

The voices faded, and Han stepped away from the Wookiee's paw and glared at him once the hatch had closed. "You shouldn't have stopped me. I have every right to—"

_It is idle gossip._

"It's insubordination."

_It is about your mate and her brother, _Chewie growled, louder now. _You would not have taken offense if it had been anyone else._

Frustrated, Han looked away, his eyes cutting to the snow-packed walls of the theater. Of _course_ he wouldn't have been as angry if they had been talking about anyone else. But that didn't stop it from being wrong, disrespectful and worth _at least _some KP duty or training runs or maybe even grounding them for a month or two.

_That is not even the worst thing someone said during this briefing, _Chewie added.

Han turned to him so fast that his neck popped.

_You should be very grateful for your poor hearing._

Fury settled into his gut and he balled his hands into fists, angrily throwing his storage sack into the secure locker where he kept his confidential data. _Fucking morons, _he thought as he keyed the lock, as he kicked the foot of the locker for good measure.

Chewie's voice was low. _There is more to your anger. What is it?_

"Ah, go play therapist somewhere else," Han bit out over his shoulder.

_It would be better to let the wound breathe here rather than take it with you to Little Princess, _he growled.

Han couldn't argue with that.

_Tell me what is bothering you, _Chewie offered again.

He wanted to let it go. He wanted to stomp out of the room and go find Leia and forget all about the day he'd had. First, an early wake-up call courtesy of the Jedi Dream Express, then a boring meeting with Rieekan, a holocall with Salla that had only solidified the worry in his gut, and then _this: _this blatant disregard for his friends, this squirming unfairness against Leia.

All day he'd been wound up tight, a trap ready to spring, the pistons firing at full capacity for the unbelievable length of fourteen hours. Every meeting he'd been in, every conversation he'd had, every training sim and departure and arrival, all of it had been one wrong word away from an explosion and he didn't know why.

That was a lie.

He knew _exactly _why.

"You knew this Yoda person," he ventured, turning to face Chewie.

His first mate's eyes were a clear blue, unfazed and discerning. Han knew that Chewie had already lived a full human lifespan by the time they'd met, knew that his friend was a war hero in his own right before the Alliance had even existed. He'd seen a government rise and fall. He'd seen the Emperor's rule and the torture and enslavement of his people first-hand. It was easy sometimes to forget his depths, how much he'd seen and experienced long before Han had come along.

_I did, _he answered.

"How could he have survived?"

The fall of the Republic. The Purge. Twenty years of Imperial rule. How did a Jedi Master survive all that and then just sit around and wait for Luke and Leia to show up, so that they could do the dirty work he and Ben Kenobi should have taken care of decades ago? Until they could sacrifice everything for the good of the galaxy they seemed to love so much? Until they were ripe for slaughter?

Han knew the stories. Even in the mean streets of Corellia, Imperial propaganda had been rampant. The Jedi had been insurrectionists. Traitors. Worse yet to the orphans and urchins, they'd been elitist, ugly exclusivists, far out of the realm of _real _people and _real _problems. Like everyone on Coruscant, they'd been handed their silver spoons and left none for the rest of the galaxy.

Young Han Solo had grown up distrusting authority, never putting much stock in those stories, but he'd also never thought the Jedi had been anything other than an order of monks with an attitude. Now he understood so much more about the Force, about its potential for destruction, its power and necessity. And he had made his peace with Leia having access to its secrets; he trusted her more than anyone else, partly because she herself was terrified of it. She and Luke were the only people he would ever feel comfortable wielding the Force like a weapon, because they were more like mythical beings, as far as he was concerned. A little better than the rest of them.

_I do not know how he survived,_ Chewie said after a moment. _I witnessed a clone trooper attempt to kill him. He was very quick, very skilled._

"I thought the clones were your allies?"

_They were. The Purge came from the Jedi's trusted friends. _

Running a tired hand over a tired face, Han grimaced. "Sounds familiar," he said, thinking of the conversation he'd just overheard. "This doesn't feel right, pal. Their dreams caused a whole hell of a lot of problems the last time."

_Those dreams also warned us about the problems we were about to have._

Han opened his mouth to counter Chewie but found he didn't have a good reply. He'd said the same thing to Leia.

_I know this is hard to understand, Cub, _the Wookiee growled. _But this is not a situation of which we can have an opinion._

"Oh, no? Watch me."

He was damn sure going to have opinions about Leia gallivanting off into a trap and no amount of Wookiee nonsense was going to fix that. This was his heart on the line here, not just a goddamn fight between good and evil. Jedi or no, Luke and Leia running off by themselves on what could be a suicide mission was not what they needed to be doing...

Oh.

Like the lighting of a match, a thought struck Han with the speed of an explosion of sparks and electricity.

His problem wasn't necessarily the running-off-to-a-mysterious-Jedi-master-in-exile part; it was the _by themselves _part that incited his fury. But if he could accompany them, if he could help them check it out… Well, that was a different story.

"I have an idea," he said, and sprinted away from Chewie without waiting for his response.

_You always do, _he heard from behind him, but Han was already through the hatch.

—0—

Leia's office was on the other side of Echo Base and Han didn't feel like running. The icy corridors were a minefield of Rogue and Merc pranks and he was in no mood for shenanigans. So, despite feeling like he'd crossed a great, troublesome impasse, he steadied his feet, taking his time.

He was wound up in a ball of protectiveness and fierce distrust and he knew it, too, which was an interesting development. Leia had been working hard on giving names to the negative feelings she felt, so maybe she was rubbing off on him. The next step was probably to ask _why _he felt the way he felt_._

But fuck that. Too easy a question to ask and too hard a question to answer.

Waving the hatch open with impatient grace, he stepped through without preamble. Leia looked up with tired eyes, chin on her fist, scrolling through a datapad with what looked like a string of numbers on it. Coordinates? He couldn't quite read them.

"I'll take you to Dagobah," he said.

Eyes widening, a small crease appeared in her forehead. "What?"

"I can take you both. That's the only way I'll feel good about it," he said in a rush. "Compromise, right?"

"No one is taking anyone _anywhere _right now, Han, that's what we decided."

The door _swooshed_ closed behind him, leaving them alone and hidden from any passersby. The air felt colder now as the ice walls crept in on them, as the air turned cold and bitter on the exposed skin of his face. How did she work in here all day? He could probably jury-rig a small personal heater for her from some spare parts, if she'd let him.

"We can make it part of a supply run," he said, interrupting his own thoughts. "That way me and Chewie can go with you two and no one else has to know except maybe Salla."

"You'd be lying to Carlist."

"We can tell him when we get back," he offered. "Check it out first. If he's real, we'll tell anyone you wanna tell."

Shaking her head, she pursed her lips. "I'm not going to ask you to do that."

"You aren't asking. I'm _offering_."

"I don't even know if I _want _to go chase this Yoda, and you're already making my travel plans?" she asked, a hint of annoyance coloring her voice.

"No," he stated, a full sentence of fact.

"Then what _are _you saying?"

"I'm saying that this is a way that makes me feel a little less nuts about you going. _If you want to go. _This is me offering a plan we can both live with."

"This is ridiculous."

"No. This is an _option._"

Han could see the struggle behind her mask, could sense the line of stubbornness that would send them straight into conflict, and tried to determine what her reaction revealed. If she didn't want to go, she didn't have to. Simple as that. What was the hang-up here?

"I think I'm… overwhelmed," she admitted, answering his unasked question, naming the emotion. "This whole thing has been too much for me to handle."

"Too much for you?" He laughed. "Sweetheart, _join the fucking club._"

Her small smile was a victory in and of itself, a sign that they had made enough progress not to jump all over each other for attempted humor.

"Do you know what really bothers me?"

He shrugged. "Your man-of-the-night keeps flying around the galaxy while you're stuck on a frozen iceball?"

"Well, yes," she said. "And I'm sorry I ever told you about that conversation."

"No, you aren't."

"No, I'm not." Exhaling, she leaned back in her chair and looked to the snowy ceiling. "Luke seems destined for all this Jedi stuff. He talks about it with an inevitability that I just don't feel."

"Destiny isn't real," he offered. "The kid's still young."

"_He_ thinks that it's real, and maybe he's right. A lot of coincidences have happened to us in the past two years. It's hard to argue with him on that front."

"_Coincidences,_" he said. "That's all it is."

"Destiny is a hard pill to swallow," she murmured.

"That's what Luke thinks. But what do _you _think?"

"That is exactly my problem," she said. "I don't know what to think. Luke is so excited about every single revelation. He finds family, I find out my family lied to me. He finds a master to teach him, I have to leave my life's work to learn with him."

She stopped, her eyes on his, her expression forcing a chill down his spine, the seriousness and the pain there, relics of a trauma that would never leave her. He wondered then what her eyes had looked like before he'd met her, when she'd _only _been a princess and a senator and a spy. He couldn't picture her as careless and free and that bothered him somehow. When did that crown get planted on her head?

If they were adding up mistakes Bail Organa had made, Han had a few he'd like to bring up.

"I don't feel any such calling," she admitted.

He wiped a hand over his mouth. "Never felt anything like that, either. Maybe not all of us have destinies. Maybe you get to make your own choices as an adult, Leia."

Breaking their eye contact, she looked away, but he continued talking.

"Maybe you can say no to Luke if you want to."

"But then I would never know."

"About what?"

"About what my father knew," she answered. "About why he lied."

_That _he understood. He'd dealt with that feeling before, the questions about where he had come from, how his life had wound up being this hard, this painful. And he understood that he had never _dealt _with that question in a beneficial way. He had moved on and done something good with his life, that was what mattered to him. Where he was going, not where he'd been.

But Leia _had _come from something. She'd come from more than one something, it turned out. And so maybe _that _was her calling. Finding closure for the mysteries of her past.

She made far more sense to Han than Luke did, that's for sure, and so he redoubled his efforts to give her a viable option if she wanted to take it.

"So you want to go," he said.

She pursed her lips, all the answer he needed, and when she finally did speak, the ice was back in her eyes, the chill of her control so inescapably present that it triggered his lopsided smirk. _That's my girl, _he thought.

"What's your plan?" she asked.

Han's grin slithered into mischief.

—0—

Crossing her arms, Salla looked like a skeptical mother interrogating her children. The tilt of her head, the suspicion in her eyes, the way her hair was harnessed into a tight bun on top of her head. No-nonsense. Tough as nails. The XO questioning her commanding officer because that was her job, _particularly _because of who her CO was.

"You're asking me to lie on the shipping manifests."

Her tone was not questioning. She was stating a fact, and Leia could sense the first notes of amusement snake through her as she watched the conversation unfurl.

"Not _lie,_" Han hedged. "Just skipping some details, that's all."

"Like the fact that you're hauling the two Alliance darlings along with some simple base freight?"

He grimaced.

"Huh," Salla said, staring at him for a moment, then turning to Leia, all business. "What's the cover?"

Leia clasped her hands behind her back, falling into the same tone of voice she used when she was giving orders to any junior officer or infantryman. "There is a snap-fusion scientist I met in my time with the senate, a Twi'lek named Gly-Mol. The last I heard she had settled back on Ryloth, working on a way to split energy with more efficiency, a culmination of decades studying the quantum fields of—"

Waving her hand, Salla interrupted Leia. "Science. Great. What do you need me to do?"

"I already added the mission to the docket," Han said. "All we need you to do is treat it like any other supply run."

"And you need Skywalker there because...?"

Han looked at Leia, who turned toward Salla and shrugged. "Because I need additional protection."

"Bullshit. You're up to something."

Leia paused and was about to deny it, but then reconsidered and nodded in agreement. "Luke and I need to go somewhere. It's about the Jedi."

Still and quiet, Salla took in the news with all the stubborn finesse of a shrewd businesswoman scouting new obstacles to tackle. Or perhaps she was just considering tackling _them. _"Figured it was something like that."

"One week, Sal, just so we can go investigate this lead," Han said.

"We would owe you," Leia added.

Outside the bubble of their conversation, the loading bay was bustling with activity, pilots and mechanics buzzing with hunger: it was nearly time for the mess hall to open for the endshift meal. The Merc's hard work the past few months had provided a stable supply of food, and there was a tight excitement in the air after Ryian had scored a fresh batch of Soccoran bread-cakes earlier today.

No one was listening to the conversation the three of them were having beneath the ramp of the _Starlight Intruder. _

Salla's serious expression continued for another moment, a moment out of time compared to the busy clamor of the bay. Until she finally broke. "You think I'm really gonna tell you you can't go on some great Jedi quest?"

"You'll help us?" Leia asked, relieved.

The XO laughed. "Of course I will," she said. "Not everyone hates breaking the rules, Princess."

Leia smiled as Han rolled his eyes, one step closer to a knowledge she wasn't sure she wanted but felt she needed nonetheless. She hadn't yet made up her mind about training with Luke: that was a separate matter and not one about which she would make a conclusion until she knew more about _General Skywalker._

But she needed to know about her parents' secrets. She needed to know _why. _And if Carlist and Mon Mothma didn't have those answers, she was going to do whatever she needed to do to resolve this abyss growing within her.

She had told Han she was _overwhelmed, _and the one thing she had learned over the past few months was that when she ignored her own misgivings, things tended to turn septic. So she wouldn't do that again. And if that meant a one-week trip to some backwater world, she would do it.

For Han.

For Luke.

And for herself.

* * *

_Author's Notes:_ _FFN apparently made the first posting of this chapter invisible, so I'm trying again. I suppose if you're seeing this now, it means I was successful the second time. _

_Happy Election month and Thanksgiving to my fellow Americans! Thank you for continuing your support for this story; both __**AmongstEmeraldClouds **__and I appreciate your kind words more than we can express. Special thanks to the woman herself, AEC, for the hours of editing. It's a collaborative couple of weeks before posting day, and she is doing far more than just adding commas. _

_The next chapter of _Specter _will post Tuesday, December 1st. Keep your eyes out for a special little outtake to drop sometime this month, too: a present for my dear editor. And thank you again! -KR _


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